


Something Borrowed

by GhyllWyne



Series: Something Broken [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character motivation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, HLV, Hurt/Comfort, Mary-Friendly, Missing Scene, Not Slash, Season/Series 03, sherlock and john - Freeform, tsot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 51,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhyllWyne/pseuds/GhyllWyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begins in the month after the wedding, and goes to the end of HLV.  Follows Something Broken but will stand alone.  One caution:  Not everything is what it seems in the beginning.  Sherlock would add: It's dangerous to draw conclusions without sufficient data.  There were a lot of motives left unexplained in the broadcast episode.  This story's point is to fix that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreaming

* * * * *  


She woke to the familiar warmth of her husband's body next to hers, but that sleepy comfort vanished with the first strangled whispers of his nightmare.  


"No. Please, no."  


As she had done nearly every night for the past two weeks, she waited for him to calm back into sleep. But his anxiety seemed to increase instead, and she realized he was going to wake himself up in the middle of it. He would be able to remember the dream in detail, maybe for the first time. She wasn't sure if she should try to soothe him, or let it happen. Dreamers who slept through a nightmare would not remember the terror. Maybe remembering it all was what he needed to do.  


So, she let him fight his way to the surface, lying still beside him. His increasingly desperate pleas tore at her heart. In a voice she barely recognized, he begged Sherlock to shut up, stop this, please don't. Finally, he drew in a gasping breath, and she winced, bracing for the scream she was sure was coming.  


Instead, he sat up in bed so abruptly that she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out in surprise. She lay frozen while he braced himself with both hands spread out behind him, elbows locked. He was shaking with adrenaline as he tried to get himself under control. A moment later, he slid carefully out of the bed and stood next to it for another minute, his breathing still quick and shallow.  


The light from the streetlamps outside leaked through the curtains just enough to show her his silhouette. It was too dark for him to see that her eyes were open, so she watched him as he slowly came down from the nightmare. His shoulders stopped heaving with rapid breaths, and began to hitch. A moment later he padded across the carpet and closed the bathroom door behind him. She heard water running for several minutes, then the loo flushing, and the sound of water rushing into the sink once more. She could see light around the door and pictured him staring into the mirror.  


She picked up her phone from the nightstand to check the time. It was nearly ten minutes more before the light switched off in the bathroom, and he opened the door. He stood still, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. When he started picking his way slowly back to bed, she took a steadying breath, and waited.  


But he didn't come to bed. He walked to the window and opened the curtains. When several minutes passed, and it looked as if he planned to stand there the rest of the night, she sat up.  


"John, are you all right?"  


He answered her without turning. "Yeah, I'm good. Go back to sleep."  


He had managed to cover the sound when he'd been in the bathroom, but he couldn't keep the aftermath from his voice. He had been crying hard, and swallowing it until his throat was raw. She knew that he wouldn't want her to see his face, so she settled back against the pillows.  


"Come back to bed."  


He didn't reply, so she tried an appeal to his protective instincts.  


"Come back to bed or I'm going to get up and stand there with you all night until you talk to me." The prospect of depriving his pregnant wife of rest seemed to work.  


He sighed, and lowered his head. She could picture the expression she couldn't see in the dark but knew so well. Lips pursed. Eyes closed, Jaw muscles flexing. Finally, he turned and came back to bed, slipping under the sheet she held up for him. He shoved his pillow hard into the headboard, then leaned back against it, half sitting, half lying down. He tucked his left arm behind his head, the tension in his body radiating across the small gap between them.  


Mary scooted next to him and placed her hand on his chest. "Please tell me what's wrong. What were you dreaming about?"  


"I don't remember."  


John had always been a terrible liar, but he didn't even seem to be trying to make this one believable. Mary sighed and began to rub his chest lightly, soothing him. She waited for him to take back the lie, as she knew he would do.  


He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The shakiness seemed to be nearly gone. "Please don't ask me to talk about it. I'm okay. Really."  


Another lie. "You're not okay, John. I haven't seen you this upset since before..." She let the thought trail off. There was no need to continue. They both knew the event that had ended his nightmares. The question now was what had started them up again, but she was afraid she might know that answer, too  


What had stopped the nightmares before had been a visit to Sherlock's grave, back when neither of them had known it was empty. It had been after a nightmare like this, the last in a stretch of them that had begun before she met him and had recurred once or twice a week. The first one she had witnessed was on the first night she had spent with him, and his pain had broken her heart. It was the first time they had really talked about the friend he had lost, and she began to grasp how much Sherlock meant to him. Even in death, he had remained the most important person in John's life. She had found herself feeling jealous of a dead man.  


John's bitter laugh in the darkness startled her.  


"Yeah, we know what stopped the nightmares. I made a complete fool of myself telling the sodding bastard's fake headstone how much I missed him. Maybe I need to go back and kick the bloody thing over and piss on it."  


The anger in his voice surprised and worried her, but it might be a good sign. Not for the first time, she wished she'd paid more attention to the nuances on her nursing rounds in psychiatry. She now had two unofficial patients who could benefit. She consciously lightened her voice. "If you think it will help, just give me a minute to get dressed."  


That actually drew a small chuckle, and he turned on his side to look at her in the faint illumination from the open curtains. "I don't deserve you." His voice was still raw, but softer now. "And you deserve so much more."  


She cupped his cheek and felt the residue of tears. "John, I will love you as long as I live, and I wouldn't trade you for anyone on this earth. Please don't ever doubt that."  


His breath hitched, and he leaned into her touch, eyes closed. "I love you more than you can possibly know." After a beat, he opened his eyes and his expression sobered. "I don't know why this is happening again, but I will work it out, I promise. Please, don't worry. And please don't ask me to talk about it." At her hesitation, he added, "I need you to trust that I can handle this, Mary. It's important."  


There was so much she wanted to say. Questions that she believed would help him see what he was trying so hard to ignore. Things that would help him work out why he was doing this to himself. But she knew he needed her trust more. "Of course. When you're ready, you know I'm here."  
She could feel some of the tension leave his body. He nodded, and smiled for the first time. "Thank you. Now, go back to sleep. It's after four in the morning, and we have to be up in two hours." He kissed her forehead, and turned on his back.  


Mary knew he would be staring at the ceiling until the alarm went off, but she pretended to believe he was going to sleep. Ten minutes later, his breathing slowed, and she realized he really had fallen asleep. Her own chances for dozing off had been blasted away by adrenaline. What was left of the night would be spent just like this.  


Should she have pushed him harder? He'd talked her out of it, and she wondered now if it was love or cowardice that made her relent. The question she was afraid he might actually answer haunted her own dreams. As with so much of their intertwined lives, the question was about Sherlock.  


She had seen the emptiness in Sherlock's eyes, and she knew John had seen it, too. Sherlock told them he thought she was pregnant before either of them ever suspected, and he'd been right. No surprise there. He was almost never wrong. When John had first started telling her about him, she'd thought his memories were colored by his affection for his dead friend. She knew now that he had actually understated the wonder that was Sherlock Holmes. It was easy to see how John came to be so devoted to him, in spite of Sherlock's best efforts to be the most unlovable human on earth. It just took someone with John Watson's heart to see the man behind the facade. Not a sociopath. A mad genius that her husband loved so much that his death had nearly killed him. John would be dead, if she hadn't come along when she did. She was sure of it.  


Now Sherlock was exactly where John had been, except that there was no one to save him. At the reception, at that moment when he had told them about the baby, Sherlock had finally let everything he was feeling show in his eyes, and John's reaction had been the same as it always was when emotion threatened to overwhelm his control. He had looked away, and he was still doing it, but it wasn't working. The truth found him in his dreams.  


She believed that Sherlock had let John see how he felt because he knew it was his last chance. He may not have done it consciously, but the effect was the same. His hold over her husband terrified her. Not because she felt they were romantic rivals. That would have been far easier to overcome than what she was really facing. Just as she had saved John's life at the last moment, Sherlock had pulled John back from the brink after he returned from the war, damaged and hopeless. She accepted that Sherlock knew her husband better than she did, and in some ways always would. There would always be part of John's heart that belonged to Sherlock, and she could never touch it.  


In a moment of selfish desperation, Sherlock had let John see how much it was hurting to lose him. No matter what, their friendship was changed forever. Sherlock would be alone, and he had let John see what it was doing to him.  


That was what had brought back the nightmares. It hadn't happened immediately. John had to think about it, and try to rationalize what he'd seen. When he'd failed, the nightmares began. The reason he didn't want to talk about it with her was that there was no point. Sherlock would have to heal his own broken heart, but all three of them knew that wasn't likely to happen.  


It was as hopeless a situation as any she had ever faced. For John, it was immeasurably worse. She believed in her heart that John would have been happy with Sherlock for the rest of his life, if the man had not disappeared for those two years that allowed John time to find her. She was equally sure that John would never hurt her. He would never abandon her, and he truly loved her as deeply as he claimed. It would just never be with all of his heart because part of that was spoken for long before they met.  


Sherlock would never allow himself to come between them, she knew that now. She hadn't realized at first how much Sherlock loved John, and how utterly selfless that love had become. Sherlock would help her. If he knew the pain he was causing John, he would do whatever it took to stop it. In fact, he might well be the only one who could.  


John turned restlessly beside her, and she reached out to soothe him. In an hour, it would be light. She closed her eyes.

* * * * *

Mary briefly considered using John's key to 221B, but decided it would send the wrong message. She was coming to beg for Sherlock's help, not to flaunt her place in John's life by walking into the flat uninvited. She could, at the very least, knock and wait to be admitted.  


She'd told John she was coming to visit with Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't entirely a lie. She would stop and say hello, of course. They were friends now.  


It was Mrs. Hudson who answered the door. "Oh, Mary. What a nice surprise!" Her smile slipped. "It is a nice surprise, I hope?"  


Mary smiled. "Yes, it is. No bonfires this time."  


"Oh, thank goodness for that. Can you come in for tea, or are you here to see Sherlock?" She glanced towards the stairs. "He's up there. I heard him banging around just a bit ago."  


"That's good to know. I'm afraid I didn't call ahead."  


Mrs. Hudson gave Mary's shoulder a motherly pat. "You go on up, dear. Stop and see me when you leave, if you have time. We'll chat." She turned and went back into her flat.  


When Mary reached the top of the stairs, the door was open.  


"I heard you come in," Sherlock's velvety voice drifted out from the kitchen. "Everything alright?"  


She walked through to the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting at the table with a microscope in front of him. He was impeccably turned out for so early in the day, dressed in his usual dark suit and white shirt. "Everything you're asking about is fine," she smiled, managing not to lie.  


His gaze sharpened, and she realized how foolish it was to try being clever with him. She cleared her throat. "John's nightmares are back, and he needs your help."  


The pain that flashed in his eyes made the rest of what she had to tell him even harder. He recovered quickly, but she wondered if he already knew what was coming.  


"I'm...sorry to hear that. What can I do?" His tone was perfectly even and neutral, and in total contradiction to what she suspected was going on inside.  
"Can we just talk for a bit?"  


He stood up. "Of course. Do you want some tea?" He went to the sink and turned on the water without waiting for her answer.  
"Thank you. That would be lovely." She watched him reach for the kettle, and she could see the slight tremor in his fingers. "I'll just go sit in the living room, if that's okay."  


"Of course." He didn't turn around. "I'm afraid we're missing a chair." His voice was a bit less steady that time.  
She turned toward the living room, and instantly understood why his voice had sounded odd a moment ago. John's chair was gone, and the implications squeezed her heart. She had a sudden clear image of Sherlock sitting across from John's permanently vacant chair, the silent reminder of what was lost. She understood perfectly why he would have been unable to bear it being there any longer. She would have moved it out of sight, too. It made her want to cry.  


"You can take my chair. I'll bring one from my desk," he called over his shoulder, voice under control once more.  
Sitting in Sherlock's chair, the empty space was even more glaring, and she was anxious for him to come join her with the tea. Her imagination was far too adept at filling in the blanks of what Sherlock's life was about to become. Had already become.  


He came in with two cups and set them down on the end table, then placed the desk chair facing her and sat with his back ramrod straight, ready for whatever she had come to tell him. He picked up his tea and sipped. "So, tell me how I can help."  


She had an irrational urge to scream at him to drop the pose and just show her what he was feeling. Instead, she cleared her throat. "Sherlock, are you alright?" She hadn't meant to ask that question, but she found that she sincerely wanted to hear his answer.  


He studied her for a moment. "Mary, what's really going on?"  


She took a breath and let it out slowly. "If I asked you what would hurt John more, seeing you or not, what would you say?"  


The pain flashed in his eyes again. "Are you saying I have a choice?"  


"I'm saying that I really don't know the answer, Sherlock. That's why I asked."  


He narrowed his gaze, wrinkling the bridge of his nose. "You think his nightmares are because of me? Why? Because I came back? John and I have talked about this. At your house. What changed?"  


She hesitated, but the question might help him understand. "Why did you remove John's chair?"  


He pulled in a sharp breath as if she physically punched him in the gut instead of throwing the emotional dagger that just landed. "It was in the way," he finally managed to answer, but the hit was in his voice, too.  


Mary bit down on her lip. This was so much worse than she had expected, she wasn't sure she could continue. "I don't want to hurt you, but I won't let John be hurt, either. He would do anything to avoid hurting you, but he would also do anything to avoid hurting me. Do you see the problem?"  


He frowned. "No, honestly I don't."  


She sighed. "He didn't know how much this was going to hurt you. Now that he does, it's making him miserable, and there's nothing I can do about it."  


"What are you talking about? I'm fine. John knows that."  


His tone was so convincing that, for a moment, she doubted her own premise. And then she noticed that he was biting down on the inside of his cheek.  


"Sherlock, you know when that changed. At the wedding reception, just after you told me I was pregnant. You dropped your defenses completely for a few seconds, and John saw it. Obviously, so did I. I don't think you meant him to, but he did, and it changed everything. Somehow, he had believed until that moment that you were fine with him moving on with me. He knows now that isn't true, and it's killing him all over again."  


Sherlock picked up his tea, but just looked at it for a moment, then set it back on the table. "How do I know you've interpreted the data correctly? When John and I talked, everything was fine."  


Sherlock repeating himself unknowingly, as he clearly was, worried her. "Sherlock, it was fine before the wedding. It was fine before he realized how much you're being hurt."  


"And your solution is for me to disappear from his life? Didn't we try that approach two years ago? I've been told that didn't go well here at home."  


Those unearthly blue eyes were fixed on her so intently that she could almost feel it on her skin. "I don't know what the solution is. You know him better than anyone. I'm asking you to devote that deductive genius to this problem, and tell me what we need to do. If you believe in your heart that remaining in his life is best, I won't doubt you. I just need you to be honest with yourself. Don't consider what's best for you, Sherlock. Not this time."  


His eyes turned from unearthly to pure ice, but they were warmer than his voice. "I have never knowingly put anyone or anything ahead of John, and I never will. If the best approach is for me to stay away, I assume you will want to offer some explanation?"  


She actually felt a shiver down her back. "Whatever you want me to say."  


He rose and walked to the window. "I will be in touch."  


She got to her feet. "Thank you, Sherlock. I know you care about him as much as I do. I know you'll do the right thing." She waited a moment, then headed for the door when he did not respond. She turned back to him when she reached it. "I'm sorry."  


He didn't acknowledge her, and she gave up.  


Mrs. Hudson didn't come out of her flat when she came downstairs, and Mary wondered if she'd heard them talking. Old houses were funny that way. Sound bounced in surprising ways. Mary wondered if she'd lost two friends instead of just one.

***  
End of chapter one


	2. Hobson's Choice

Mrs. Hudson was arranging biscuits on a plate to go with the tea she had just brewed when footsteps heading down the stairs told her that her guest would be knocking on the door in a moment. It seemed odd, though. Mary must have spent an hour in traffic, and all for ten minutes with Sherlock. A phone call would have done the same with a lot less trouble. No matter. It would give her that much more time to catch up on baby news.

But the knock never came. The footsteps didn't turn toward her door, they headed for the front door. A moment later, it opened and closed.

Now, that really was odd. She waited, thinking perhaps Mary had gone next door for something and would be coming back. There wasn't a sound coming from upstairs, but she knew Sherlock was still up there. She was certain only one person had come down, and she knew all variations of the sound of Sherlock's progress up and down those stairs. It had not been him. So, not only had Mary come and gone in the space of ten minutes, she had apparently changed her mind about stopping back to see her.

Five more minutes of complete silence got the better of her curiosity. She picked up the tea she had intended to share with Mary and headed up the stairs.

Both doors were open. Sherlock was standing at the window, looking down at the street.

"Hoo hoo." He didn't turn, and she added a few raps on the door jamb.  
"Sherlock, I brought you some tea."

He acknowledged her with a vague hum as he turned away from the window and picked up the desk chair that had been moved over in front of the fireplace. He took it back to his desk, then sat down and began clicking keys at his usual breakneck speed.

She set the teapot on the kitchen table. It was already too cool to drink, but it had only been a ruse to come up and see what was going on. Sherlock probably knew that. She came out to the living room pretending to do a quick tidy up, stacking magazines while she tried to get a feel for his mood. "Sherlock, did Mary leave?"

He huffed at that and kept typing. "Do you see her?"

She walked into his line of sight, bending down a bit to try to catch his eye. "Did something happen? She was going to stop by and see me but--"

He cut her off with an exaggerated sigh. "Mrs. Hudson, I don't have time for this. Please leave."

"Sherlock." She put her best 'how could you' hurt tone into it, and he sighed again, but he stopped typing and looked at her. She tried again. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. You will have to ask Mary, if you want to know why she chose to by-pass your refreshments. Now, if I may...?" He tilted his head at the laptop and raised both eyebrows.

He did seem perfectly normal. There was no sign of trouble, though she honestly had no idea what she would expect that to look like. "Fine. I will leave you to it, then."

He had already returned to the laptop. She had been dismissed. For a moment, she considered pressing him, but decided it was pointless. There was something wrong, that much she knew, but he wasn't going to tell her. He never did.

She was nearly at the top of the stairs when he called after her, "Thank you for the tea," in such an oddly gentle voice that she nearly came back, but settled for, "You're welcome, Sherlock."

The lightning quick keystrokes resumed, and she headed down the stairs, wondering briefly if she should call John. Sherlock would have her head for it, and she really didn't know what she would say to John anyway. It was just a feeling.

She wondered if John and Sherlock had some kind of falling out. Maybe Mary had come to try smoothing things over. If so, it couldn't have gone very well. Before the wedding, John and Mary had been here nearly every day. Since then, there had been nothing until Mary's visit today. 

She wondered whose decision that had been. There had been talk at the wedding. Idle speculation, out of earshot of the subjects under discussion, wondering how John could have persuaded his ex to be best man, not to mention convincing his bride to overlook it. She had put a stop to it the moment the gossip came to her attention, shaming them into silence. No one who knew Sherlock would ever think that he'd needed persuasion. He would do anything for John. 

* * * * *

As soon as Mrs. Hudson's door closed downstairs, Sherlock got up from the desk to close the living room and kitchen doors. He paused long enough to poor a cup of her tea. He sipped it, made a face, and dumped the contents of the cup and the pot into the sink. Then he turned on the kettle and replayed Mary's visit while he waited for it to boil.

He had made a mental recording of the entire conversation, and he'd been reviewing it since Mary left. He studied her facial expressions, watched her eyes. Listened to her words as well as the nuances in her voice that would either corroborate or contradict them. His conclusions remained the same as when he'd heard it all in real time. Her observations may have been incomplete, or colored by her feelings for John, but she believed what she was saying, and her intent was to tell him the truth as she knew it. She had also meant what she said about accepting his decision. If he told her that it would be better for him to remain a part of John's life, she would support him. That wasn't what she wanted him to decide, obviously. She expected his decision to be the one she wanted him to make, confident that she had painted a picture that, if he accepted it, left no alternative. 

Hobson's Choice. The illusion of having options when there were none. The piercing irony wasn't lost on him. He was in this position because of the equally optionless 'choice' he'd made two years earlier. If he had taken John with him, or not gone at all, or let John know he wasn't dead, things would be very different. Timing played a part as well. He'd come back six months too late. In the grand scheme of things, it was a blink. In the less grand scheme of his own life, it was everything.

Even the smallest snippets of time could do that. His five seconds of self-indulgent sentiment at the wedding, for example. That was all it had taken for Mary to decide that the best thing she could do for her husband's mental health was to banish Sherlock from his life.

To be fair, the five second lapse in control wasn't born in a vacuum. The assault on his defenses had started with Major Sholto, and been reinforced by the cheap shots from Mycroft in a phone call he should never have made. The final volley was when he'd realised what the bride's symptoms added up to. A baby changed everything. Ended everything. So, he had allowed what he was feeling to show. He had wanted John to see it. He had regretted it the instant he saw that he'd succeeded, and he'd been regretting it every day since.

Mary had just provided him with the perfect opportunity to take it all back. John would be relieved, Mary would be grateful, and his own dignity would be restored. And all it had taken to pull it together was timing-- the fortunate kind-- and a case that had recently dropped into his lap. He would be able to erase a mistake, and in the bargain, he would take down a man who deserved it more than anyone he'd encountered since Moriarty.

Two birds with a single stone. Elegant.

Two nights ago, he had come home to what he'd assumed to be Mycroft's car parked out front. Before he could walk up and jerk the door open to tell Mycroft where to put his umbrella, the door had opened, and Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had stepped out.

Lady Smallwood was an old friend of the Holmes family; part of it, actually, though very distantly and several times removed. She had once stayed at the Holmes estate between divorces when Sherlock had still been in school. She was fond of hunting, as well as being an impressively good shot. She had taken Sherlock with her on several outings, and they had become friends. He had not seen her in years, but she had still felt comfortable enough to reveal the intimate details of the blackmail threat she needed him to resolve. 

When she had given him the name of the blackmailer, he had recognized it immediately, though not just for his publishing empire. It was because Sherlock had recently met the man's most trusted employee. And just that quickly, he knew how the case and his issue with Mary Watson fit together as if they'd been created in tandem.

He had spent the next twenty hours doing research online, wandering across the line enough to raise an alarm with Mycroft's ever-watchful minions. He'd gained an entirely new appreciation for the abomination that was Charles Augustus Magnussen, and he knew exactly how he would bring the man down. He had been in the process of mapping it all out in his head when the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs told him his brother was about to appear. He had opened the door before Mycroft reached it, then stood blocking his path.

"Mycroft. Doing a bit of electronic eavesdropping, were we?"

Mycroft was wearing his trademark three piece suit and carrying his umbrella like a walking cane. There was a large envelope tucked under his arm. "As a matter of fact, yes." He had pushed past Sherlock and settled into his brother's fireside chair. It had taken him all of ten seconds to comment on the absence of John's chair. "Have you sent it out to be cleaned?" He had asked with his customary sneer, but there had been something in his eyes that looked uncomfortably close to sympathy.

Sherlock had enlisted a kitchen chair this time, and placed it opposite Mycroft. "I wish I'd left the bloody thing where it was. I didn't realise it had its own fan club."

Mycroft had dropped his chin and given him a knowing look. "I didn't come to discuss your decor, Sherlock. You know why I'm here. What's got you pillaging databases that I have expressly told you to avoid?"

Sherlock had shrugged. "Pick passwords I can't crack in three tries. And you already know the reason for the research." He had known from the start that Lady Smallwood's visit would not go unnoticed. "It's for a case."

"What case?"

He'd snorted at that. "Mycroft, don't pretend you don't know that Lady Smallwood came to see me. You know I'm not going to tell you the specifics, so let's not waste any more of each other's time." He got to his feet. "You know your way out." He took a step toward his desk.

"Sherlock, sit down."

He had rolled his eyes, but he returned to his seat. "I'll stay out of your databases. Happy?" He was finished with it, anyway.

Mycroft had studied him for a moment, the way only Mycroft could do. "Just as you are unable to share the details of your 'case' with me, I am prevented from giving you my reasons for this request, but I am asking you to stay out of Lady Smallwood's...situation. It is very much in your best interest to comply."

Sherlock had sat back, searching Mycroft's face for anything that might explain the sense he'd just gotten that this was much more than it appeared. This wasn't about the database intrusion. "You have some reason for wanting Lady Smallwood's 'situation' to go unresolved. What?" Mycroft had blinked, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Direct hit.

Mycroft lifted his chin. "The matter is not open to debate, and I am not going to justify my request. Lady Smallwood has a great many other resources to handle this matter. You are not the only option."

"Then you do know what she came to see me about." Sherlock had stared at him a moment, then shook his head at Mycroft's grim silence. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but what's really bothering you? I realise it's a foreign concept, but you might try telling me the truth."

The superior sneer had returned. "I see that my concern is wasted, as usual." He had risen stiffly to his feet. "Your access to the databases will be closely watched, and I can no longer shield you from the consequences." He had walked around Sherlock's chair and headed for the door, then turned as he reached it. "If you persist in this endeavor, I can promise that you will come to regret it bitterly, and for the rest of your days."

Truly baffled now, Sherlock had followed him, reaching the top of the stairs just as Mycroft stopped on the landing. Their eyes had met and held. Mycroft smiled with no trace of humor, then turned and headed down the final flight. Sherlock had walked back to the windows in time to see his brother's car pull away.

Looking back, Mycroft's dramatic overreaction bothered him less than it had at the time. Sherlock put it down to his brother trying a new approach to managing him that, hopefully, he would now add to the dust bin. 'Regret it bitterly and for the rest of your days' sounded like the grown-up version of Mycroft's threatening him with a boogeyman in the closet when they were children. It hadn't worked then, either.

Mycroft's warning was part of their routine. He would ignore it, just as he'd always done. Just as he knew Mycroft expected him to do.

* * * * 

End of Chapter Two


	3. Sleepover

Janine's blush was visible, even in the low light. The buzz of conversation around them from the other patrons provided enough cover that she apparently felt safe sharing some very intimate details of her recent sleepover, and Mary wished it had been enough to prevent her from hearing it as well. It was too much information, but she couldn't allow that to show. This was the epitome of girl talk, and her reaction needed to look like fascination. Fortunately, Janine's narrative seemed to be reaching its climax, so to speak.

"He's not a cuddler, but he makes up for it with the most amazing..." Words seemed to fail her for a moment. "I sound like a moony eyed schoolgirl, don't I?" 

Mary smiled. "Don't apologize for being happy. He sounds wonderful, whoever he is." Janine had still not revealed the identity of her mystery man, and she'd said she couldn't. Not yet. 

After two weeks of hearing Janine describe encounters that could have come straight out of a bodice-ripper romance novel, Mary had been completely blindsided when she had stumbled onto who it was.

She had been following Janine, a surveillance that had been mandated by Magnussen. It was a test, he'd said, to gauge her skills as the latest addition to his assets. His most trusted employee was behaving oddly, and he suspected she was involved in a romantic relationship. He had decided that no one would be better suited to finding out the details (and whether it might be a threat to her trustworthiness) than another woman. It was the first contact she'd had from the man since he had revealed himself and what he knew about her. It was, he had told her, the very least she owed him in exchange for his continued silence.

When the very first surveillance had ended in front of 221B, with Janine stepping giddily out of a cab and opening the door with her own key, Mary been stunned literally speechless for so long that her own cab driver had begun to cast worried glances in the mirror.

She had realized instantly that Magnussen wasn't trying to find out what his PA was up to. He was showing Mary that he already knew. A man like Magnussen would recognize the value, as well as the danger, of what was happening, and he would have a plan in place to turn it all to his benefit. For reasons she didn't yet know, Sherlock was apparently using Janine to gain access to information about Magnussen. There was no other possibility. Magnussen's first contact with her had been the week after Sherlock's return from the dead, and she had suspected at the time that her association with John, and by extension, with Sherlock, was what had led him to her. Now he was planning to use her to stop Sherlock, or to find a means of controlling him, too. Mycroft would, of course, be the ultimate goal. And Sherlock had unwittingly set it all into motion. It was serendipity for Magnussen, and potential catastrophe for her.

"Mary?" Janine had reached across the table and was squeezing her hand. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Guess I got lost in the imagery." She gave Janine a lascivious smile that seemed to satisfy her.

Janine beamed. "I have the same problem. Embarrassing when the boss catches you having a bit of a moment at work, too. Oddest relationship I've ever had, but oh my god it's lovely. Getting a bit... frustrating though." Her smile slipped. "You're a nurse. Can I ask your medical opinion? I just want some assurance that I'm not carrying on with a lunatic."

Mary's frown was the first genuine reaction she'd allowed all night. "Why would you think that? What's he done?"

Janine rested her forearms on the table and leaned in close. "I told you I was going to just come straight out and ask him why he won't do more than we've been doing. It's not that he can't. I've seen some pretty impressive evidence to the contrary." At Mary's wince, she smiled, "I'm not gonna give you the details, but believe me when I say that it's going to be worth the wait. When I asked him why he's holding back, he said he's on some covert assignment and has to use intravenous drugs to keep his cover. He won't have sex with me until the assignment is over and he's tested clean for HIV."

Mary quickly grabbed her tea and took long sip to hide her smile. It was an ingenious dodge, she had to admit. She had wondered how he could manage to maintain a relationship with a woman like Janine without indulging in activity that she could simply not imagine, knowing him as well as she did. "I think he sounds like a very... thoughtful man."

Janine frowned. "You believe the story about the undercover assignment, then? It doesn't seem like a story he's making up to sound like James Bond? Or maybe that he's crazy enough to think that's who he is?"

Mary let her see the smile this time. "James Bond would hardly be avoiding sex with you, now would he? It seems plausible to me. You said he was a detective. Have you seen any sign that he's actually using drugs?"

"Yes, he showed me the needle marks." She smiled ruefully. "He couldn't avoid it, really. There's no inch of that gorgeous hide that I haven't seen." At Mary's rolled eyes, she added. "Sorry. I do go on, don't I?"

Mary glanced at her watch. "You do, but who could blame you?" She reached over and patted Janine's hand. "Now, I have to get home before my own Prince Charming locks me out."

Janine looked distressed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I haven't even asked you about John. I'm such a selfish twit."

"Don't be silly. John is fine, and I understand completely. Young love, and all." A thought made her pause. "Is that what it is? Do you think this is serious?"

Janine's smile answered before her words. "I think he's the most attractive, most intelligent, sweetest man I've ever known." She shrugged. "Maybe. I guess we'll see." She picked up her gym bag from the floor next to her chair and got to her feet. "Same again next week?"

They had been meeting for drinks after yoga class for months now, although the baby had changed her pints to cups of tea. The class was where Mary had acquired her, in fact, 'acquired' being a euphemism from her old life. The target being Janine. "Of course. Wouldn't miss it." She returned Janine's quick hug, then sat back down. Her phone had just announced a text with a double vibration, the signal she had set for Magnussen. "I'll just finish my tea. Then I've got to go next door and get some takeaway for John."

As soon as Janine was out of sight, she pulled out her phone. The text from her blackmailer told her she had just run out of time.

When she had met with him to go through the motions of reporting what he already knew, Magnussen had told her that there were three phases to the current task, and she had just completed the first. The second, he'd told her, would involve Sherlock, although he would not reveal the details until the time was right. She knew he would never order her to kill him. Dead bodies provided no leverage. But she knew that whatever he did have in mind would be just as bad. Seeing his text, she realized that he had finally underestimated her. He was leaving her no alternative, and that was a surprisingly stupid move for such a careful man.

Tell him who you are and ask for help.

She stared at the message until the waitress came over to ask if she needed anything. 

"No, thank you. I'm leaving." 

She stopped next door for takeaway, then hailed a cab. Sitting in the darkened backseat surrounded by the savory aromas wafting from the bag next to her, she stepped through the contingency plan she'd been working on for days, all the while hoping it would never be needed. Knowing now that hope had been futile. The silencer fit both pistols, but she thought the smaller caliber would be the better choice. No chance of an exit wound, and very little blowback. The soft nose rounds would maximize the internal damage. It would be quick and final.

Janine had mentioned just tonight that she would be working late tomorrow because her boss had an important dinner meeting, and he would be coming back to the office afterwards. She'd been grousing about the time she would miss with her boyfriend. Mary calculated the possibilities. Weighed risk and benefit. The timing was critical, and she would probably have to hurt Janine to avoid being seen, but she was confident that this would work. It had to.

She looked up when the cab slowed. John opened the front door and stood waiting while she paid the fare and got out. When she got within reach of him, John gave her a quick hug and sniffed the air. 

"What's that I smell? Kung Pao?"

Normalcy. Sanity. "And fried Won Tons." She pushed the door shut and handed the takeaway to John. "It will need a few turns in the microwave. I'll be there in a minute."

He raised the bag to his nose and took another sniff, then grinned and headed for the kitchen. Mary removed her coat and hung it in the closet, watching the love of her life steal tidbits from the bag. He glanced up and caught her looking. She instantly lifted her chin and smiled.

* * * * *

Janine was sitting up in bed with her legs bent at the knee and her arms folded on top of them, resting her chin on her hands, watching him dress. She always watched, even if she had to follow him into the bathroom. It was, to him, more invasive than anything else they did.

"Sherl, how can you do that to your hair?" 

She was making a face at the homemade concoction he used to slick down his hair and make it look like it hadn't been washed in a month. He had designed it to smell as nasty as it looked, and he had succeeded.

"It keeps the women at bay," he said, and winked, which charmed her a tad more than he'd intended.

"It better," she purred as she got up and came over to him, pulling the sheet around her. It trailed across the floor like a train. She stretched up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck but stopped short of the kiss she'd been about to plant on his lips,. wrinkling her nose instead. "My god, you smell like a dirty sock." Then she kissed him anyway. It started out as a playful peck, but being separated by nothing but the sheet stimulated a more enthusiastic response. It was several more minutes before she allowed him to resume getting dressed.

Janine went back to bed, curled on her side under the now-untucked sheet. Her dark hair spilling over the pillow did paint an alluring picture. He'd seen much less attractive women photographed that way in the magazines John seemed to find so intriguing. Janine could put most of them to shame. Speaking clinically, of course. He pulled on his oversized jacket, and turned to the mirror for a final inspection. He often overdid the dirt on his face, but this application seemed about right. 

"You look like a proper lowlife," Janine assured him. "I can't wait to help you clean it all off in the morning." 

He came back to the bed and cupped her cheek. "I'm counting on it." He dropped his voice an octave the way she apparently preferred. It had the desired effect. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, then turned and kissed the palm of his hand.

"Go. Before I drag you back and tend to you the way you deserve."

He paused in the doorway to look back at her, and she blew him a kiss. He smiled and closed the door behind him.

Safely on the other side, he released a suppressed shudder and wiped his hand on his coat.

* * * * *

End of Chapter 3


	4. Beginnings

Sherlock heard the forced entry at the front door, and all systems came instantly to full alert. Wiggins was ordering the intruder to leave. Then Sherlock heard the intruder's voice, and took a moment to marvel at his own stupidity as a series of seemingly unrelated observations suddenly clicked into place.

From somewhere near the foot of the stairs, John was telling Wiggins that he'd come for Isaac Whitney. That would be the young man in the next bed who had introduced himself to Shezza the last two times they had run into each other here, apparently forgetting that he'd done the same on four previous occasions as well. Isaac had told him that this place was his favorite because it was walking distance from his home, and his mother would no longer let him use the car. Sherlock knew it was also walking distance from John's house, but that had been merely peripheral data until this moment. John was here to retrieve his neighbor's son. Of course.

"No. Just used to a better class of criminal."

John was coming up the stairs.

Sherlock was in a half crouch, about to sprint for the exit, when he recognized the windfall that had just dropped into his lap. He lay down and put his back to the room. If he were looking for a way to make John choose to avoid him, he could not have devised a better way to do it than letting him see what he was about to see. A bit of reverse psychology would be called for, but he was more than equal to that.

He waited until John was ready to help Isaac to his feet. Then, he turned to look over his shoulder and start the ball rolling.

"Oh, hello, John. Didn't expect to see you here."

John froze for a moment, and then slowly turned to look at him with a mixture of disbelief and mounting outrage.

"Did you come for me, too?" He added a half smile to fan the flames.

Lips pressed tightly, eyes dangerously narrowed, John turned back to Isaac and said through audibly gritted teeth, "Mary is out front. Go get in the car." He helped Isaac to his feet, then turned back to Sherlock, hands on his hips. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

He pulled an innocent face. "What makes you--" 

He later blamed his drugs-muted reflexes for what happened next. John leaned down, grabbed him by the coat with both hands and jerked him to his feet. Despite the height difference, John pulled him close enough to hiss in his ear, "We are leaving. Right. Now." He followed that up with a brutal shove that would have knocked him off his feet, if it hadn't slammed him into what turned out to be a very flimsy door in the wall a few feet behind him. The impact blew the door from its hinges, and Sherlock stumbled out onto the landing of a rickety fire escape.

John stalked after him, and they shot verbal arrows at one another all the way down to the car. It was a full house, and turned more so a moment later when John invited Wiggins to join them.

Not surprisingly, John announced that their next stop was Bart's. Wedged between Isaac and Wiggins, Sherlock could only roll his eyes, not that he would have tried to get out, even if he could move. John couldn't have been following Sherlock's script any better if he'd been reading from the page. 

The whole point of the drugs use was to create a weakness for Magnussen to find before they met, and he had been running out of time. It had begun to look as if he would need to do something truly dangerous, like fake an overdose, before his 'relapse' would become known. John stumbling onto him, catching him in the act, was something he could not have planned. The effect it would have on John's respect for him was unfortunate, but as a means of pushing him away painlessly, it hit all the marks. Being tested at Bart's would handle the Magnussen part of it nicely. He would just have to make sure that Molly didn't try 'losing' the report to protect him.

Concern over her protective instincts evaporated when the entourage trooped through the door to her lab, and she turned to look at him. He'd had a smart remark prepared, but thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut instead. Molly Hooper was as angry as he'd ever seen her, and it was all directed at him. Even more surprising than her anger was the momentary hollow sensation it seemed to inspire. He pushed it aside, and crossed his arms.

Molly picked up a plastic sample container from the workspace and held it out to John. "Take him to the next room and have him pee in that."

"I'm perfectly capable of--"

"Don't." John was holding one finger in the air, lips pressed tight. He nodded toward the door leading to the locker room. 

Sherlock knew he could turn around and walk out, or he could pee in a jar. He stiff-armed the locker room door, with John following on his heels.

John unscrewed the lid and held the bottle out to him. "I hope you don't have a shy bladder because I'm going to stand here and watch you."

"John, this isn't what it looks like." He said it as much to distract himself as anything. Peeing in front of someone who was actively watching was not something he'd experienced since he'd stopped ending up in rehab. Having John in the role of monitor was painful for both of them, going by the grim line of John's mouth.

John gave him a 'get on with it' gesture. "We'll see what it is when Molly finishes with the test."

Sherlock managed to supply the required sample, screwed on the lid, and handed the disgustingly warm jar back to him. "Do you mind if I wash my hands?" He nodded toward the hall door where there were public toilets. 

"Please yourself," John said, and turned on his heel. Sherlock stared at the door for a long moment after John disappeared through it. Then he walked out into the hall in search of a sink and soap.

* * * * *

John stood next to Molly while she ran the test, hoping he'd misread the signs he'd seen in his friend's eyes. Molly seemed to be sharing that thought.

"John, why would he use drugs? What happened?" With Sherlock out of the room, she wasn't hiding her anguish.

He shook his head. "I haven't seen him in a month. Not since the wedding. I have no idea what would make him do this."

Molly's hands stilled, and she looked at him for a moment, then glanced over at Mary and the druggie with the sprained arm. They were across the room, out of earshot. She turned back to John and spoke in a low voice. "Did something happen between you two? You all looked so happy at the wedding, and then when Sherlock left like that..." She shook her head. "I just thought maybe he'd said something to you that might explain what's going on."

John opened his mouth to respond, but she rolled right over him. "I saw his face when he left the reception, John. He didn't think anyone was watching him, and he just looked so..." She took a breath. "Did he tell you he was leaving? Do you know what upset him? Maybe it was..." She trailed off, looking down at the test and resuming her work. "I don't know. I'm just worried."

"I can't think of anything." He paused. That was a lie. He knew exactly the moment the mood had changed, but he was not going to discuss it here, and certainly not with Molly. He puffed out a slow breath. "I think you're reading too much into it. He was tired. Holding court all day like that was so far outside his comfort zone that I still can't believe he did it." He paused until she looked up, then smiled, encouraging her to do the same. "And he did give a great speech."

"And solved a murder," she added, but her smile only lasted the length of a heartbeat. "You're probably right. Let's hope we're worried for no reason." She glanced at the door. "Is he still out there?"

As if on cue, Sherlock came back from the main hall. Finding all eyes focused on him, he glanced dramatically toward the ceiling and plopped onto the first stool he reached.

Molly's entire demeanor changed. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and the soft concern John had seen a moment ago vanished. The tension in the room had increased so abruptly that it apparently even caught Mary's attention. John saw her pause in her ministrations over the sprained arm and look up at John questioningly. Time to defuse. He leaned close to Molly and whispered theatrically, knowing Sherlock would hear, "It's just for a case."

 

* * * * *

John watched Sherlock's cab pull away from 221B, then hailed one for himself. His plan was to spend the afternoon at the clinic while he awaited his summons from Sherlock. This was, hands down, the strangest day he'd ever spent with the man, which was quite a statement. And it wasn't over yet.

Shopping. Sherlock had said he was going shopping, as if it wasn't the Sherlock-equivalent of the Queen popping in to scrub the loos on her way to tea. The intended purchase must either be something Sherlock knew John would refuse to buy for him, or it was something Sherlock didn't want him to know about until whatever dramatic reveal he had planned. The statement had been meant to start John wondering, obviously, just like the parting shot about John's weight gain. 'Mary and I think seven.' The implication there was that Sherlock had kept up contact with Mary for the past month, all the while ignoring John.  
And he'd apparently already cleared tonight's mystery mission with Mary, too, before he had even mentioned it to John. 'You are. I checked.' Available, he'd meant. If the intention was to make John feel like an outsider, it was working.

Wherever Sherlock was dragging him off to tonight would have something to do with getting back Lady Smallwood's letters. That much, John could deduce on his own. Sherlock somehow planned to outwit a man who had actually managed to make him stammer to a stop in the middle of a sentence. John had never, ever seen that happen before. It had been the most shocking part of the whole encounter, until Magnussen strolled up and pissed in the fireplace. Up to that moment, John had thought Sherlock's explanation for the drugs was ridiculous. But after seeing the kind of man they were dealing with, he understood what had driven Sherlock to such extremes. He didn't agree with the approach Sherlock had chosen, but he no longer doubted his intent.

John might have been even more shocked by Magnussen if Janine hadn't already blasted the needle completely off the scale by coming out of Sherlock's bedroom earlier, wearing nothing but a shirt. Everything John knew about Sherlock said it wasn't remotely possible that he could be sleeping with her, and yet there she was. Obviously at home. Utterly comfortable. Flaunting it, actually. Demonstrating her intimacy with Sherlock by waltzing into the bathroom and, by the sound of it, actually climbing into the tub with him. John had stood dumbfounded at Sherlock's throaty 'good morning', and Janine's delighted 'ooh!' at whatever happened next. Now that was a mental image John would never be able to erase. 

Sherlock proceeded to put on a very convincing act, of course. He was a master at that. But why? And if it was the performance John believed it had to be, it wasn't just for Janine's benefit. He'd kept it up even when she was out of earshot in the other room. Even after he'd kissed her good bye at the door. He wanted John to believe it, too, and there had to be a reason. Was he trying to make John feel better about leaving him alone? Molly had hinted at that possibility this morning, presumably without knowing anything about Janine. She'd been upset by something she'd seen in Sherlock at the wedding. John had seen it, too, for just an instant, and it had been on his mind ever since. But could even Sherlock be heartless enough to let Janine fall in love with him, just to prove a point? 

Then again, there was the possibility that John was willfully ignoring the simplest answer-- that Sherlock actually had a girlfriend-- because it would force him to take a closer look at the way it was making him feel.

His phone started vibrating in his pocket as the taxi pulled up in front of the clinic. It was Mary, and he smiled. "I'm out front, on my way in."

"I'm not there yet." She sounded distracted. "It will be about an hour. I have something I need to take care of."

"What's going on?"

"It's nothing. I'll be there as soon as I can." She ended the call.

He paid the fare and headed for his office, not sure where the thought was coming from, but positive that Mary was on her way to see Sherlock.

* * * * *

Mary put the phone back in her coat pocket and turned her attention to Sherlock who was watching her from across the table. He had chosen this place, and Mary wondered if he knew that she and Janine met here every Friday. But then she almost smiled at her own naiveté because of course, he did. He was telling her that. She just had no idea why. 

It was lunch time, and they'd had to take the worst table in the house, next to the kitchen entrance in the back corner. There was a lot of wait staff traffic, but the other patrons were well out of earshot. "You have my full attention." She folded her hands on the table in front of her.

"It won't take the whole hour." He referred to the time she'd told John. "You'll have time for lunch." He mirrored her posture, leaving forward. "I told John that you approved his coming with me tonight on a case. I also strongly implied that you and I have been conspiring to look after him in spite of himself."

"And what do you hope to accomplish with that? Make him angry with me?"

He frowned. "Of course not. You know how he's likely to respond to me attempting to mother him. It's totally out of character for me. The case tonight will make him question everything he knows about me. I've already planted the seeds for it, in fact, to rather noticeable effect. Add that to the drugs, and he'll wonder if he ever knew me at all." He sat back, obviously pleased with himself.

She took a slow breath, choosing her words. "Sherlock, I've had second thoughts about this. I try never to act on impulse, but I think I did just that when I came to see you about John. No matter how much better it might be for him, he would never forgive me if he found out that I was responsible for you cutting him out of your life. It was a mistake, and I'm asking you to undo whatever it is you've got planned. Please."

He looked bewildered for a moment. "You think I'm doing this because you asked me to?" His expression hardened. "If you truly believe that I would turn away from John just to please you, then you don't know me at all. You don't know either of us."

"No, I don't think you're doing it for me, but he will." She leaned forward, reaching for his hand, surprised when he didn't jerk it away. "Sherlock, please. You're too important to John, and he's too important to me. I thought I knew what the nightmares were about, but I was wrong. He misses you. It's as simple as that. He misses what the two of you used to have. I can't fix that, but you can. All you have to do is be strong enough to let me in, too. I promise, you won't regret it."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and the bridge of his nose wrinkled in a way she'd seen once before but didn't recognize until she heard John talk about it. He was deducing her. When he tipped his head back and took a short breath, she recognized that, too.

"You're afraid of what John will think if he discovers you persuaded me to stay away, but what if he could never find out? Would that change your mind back again?"

"How could you possibly guarantee that he would never find out?" She instantly realized that was the wrong response, and quickly added, "No, it wouldn't change my mind, Sherlock. I promise you." She smiled. "Actually, I was going to call you this morning to tell you this, but then you sort of made that unnecessary." She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. Briefly. When he pulled away, it was to push back his chair, ready to leave.

"John made it unnecessary." He stood up and pulled on his gloves. "I promise I'll send him home tonight, safe and sound. And we'll see where it goes from there."

The waitress hurried toward them just as Sherlock was leaving. Mary assured her it wasn't because of the service, then ordered a cup of tea that she had no intention of finishing. She just needed to think for a few minutes before she called John. She wouldn't have time for the clinic today. John would not be happy at the last minute notice, but everything she was about to do was for him. And, in a way, for Sherlock. 

She had made a mistake yesterday, one she'd recognized almost immediately, and she really had intended to see Sherlock again this morning to try undoing it. John finding him like that was almost enough to make her believe in fate.

She and Sherlock had made the same mistake, but from different perspectives. Each believed they knew what life with John Watson should look like, and thought making it happen was somehow under their control. Sherlock had expected to come back from the dead to find his friend waiting for him, ready to pick up where they had left off. Mary had believed she would have John all to herself forever. She had come into his life at its lowest point, and she had saved him. She'd believed that made her invulnerable. And then Sherlock had come back and proved how blind she had been.

For just a few hours yesterday, she'd thought she could put things back the way they had been before Sherlock returned by making him go away. She had come very close to talking him into it before she realized what it would mean.

She knew Sherlock must already have traced Mary Morstan back five years and discovered that the trail ended there. She also had no doubt that he could find the whole truth, if he kept looking. She believed now that the only reason he was content to let the past stay buried was knowing how much it meant to John to have her in his life. But if he left John in her care and was no longer part of their lives, he would eventually feel the need to make sure she truly was 'worthy of this man'. And that would be the beginning of a very swift end to the life it had taken her five years to build. It was a life she had never expected to include a man like John Watson, but one she could no longer imagine living without him.

That could never be allowed to happen. What she would do tonight would end Magnussen's threat. Keeping Sherlock in their lives would close the other. Tomorrow would be a fresh beginning for all of them.

* * * * *

End of Chapter Four


	5. Don't Die

Once Sherlock identified the scent, it took only seconds to come up with the name of the woman who wore it. He literally followed his nose up the stairs to Magnussen's suite and down the hall to an open door. The sounds of Magnussen's mewling pleas for his life told him what he was about to see, and he confirmed it with a quick peek around the doorframe. The petite figure holding the gun could be no one else. Lady Smallwood was taking matters into her own hands. He had never known her to be satisfied with a seat on the sidelines. That, plus her fondness for weapons and skill in using them, made this outcome completely predictable. His failure to anticipate it had allowed her to complicate the situation exponentially.

She was standing with her back to the door, clearly not expecting company. Magnussen, on his knees in front of her, was too focused on the weapon she was pointing at his head to notice his arrival. Sherlock stepped quietly into the room, formulating his opening, when he heard her rack the slide to chamber a round. Magnussen's pleading ramped up. 

He waited for the man to take a breath, then chimed in. "Additionally, if you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume... Lady Smallwood."

Magnussen saw him then, and his expression changed. Relief would be appropriate, but not this single arched brow, as if Sherlock had committed some social blunder. 

The first whisper of alarm passed almost without notice.

Magnussen glanced up at his attacker, then back at Sherlock. "Sorry, who?" His puzzlement seemed genuine. 

Lady Smallwood shifted her weight, and began to turn around. 

Magnussen flinched slightly. "That's...not... Lady Smallwood, Mr. Holmes."

Before he could evaluate Magnussen's statement, the woman completed her turn, and took aim on the center of his chest. 

It took several seconds for his brain to unlock, and then the flood of data nearly overwhelmed him. None of it new. All of it ignored until this moment. And now, the one bit that mattered most kept repeating, blocking out the rest. 

Liar. 

Stupid, stupid. The signs had all been there. Mary's history ending abruptly five years ago was a fact he had discovered, and then discarded because surely Mycroft would have warned him if there was anything dangerous there. He knew his brother would have vetted her when she took up with John, and he would not have stopped at the first dead end the way Sherlock had done. Mycroft would not have shared his determination to protect John from what he didn't need to know. Mycroft would never be deterred by sentiment. Sherlock's safety, as well as John's, would take precedence. For the first time, Mycroft's intrusiveness had been welcome. Sherlock had relied on it, in fact. Could Mary actually have managed to hide the truth from Mycroft, only to let herself be trapped by a blackmailer? 

_She can't kill Magnussen now. She must know that. Not with--_

John would be on his way up at any moment.

The same thought apparently also occurred to Mary, and she asked for confirmation. The problem was that Sherlock couldn't seem to find his voice. When he finally managed to get the words out, it steadied him. He took a breath. This was Mary, after all. No matter what else she might be, she wasn't stupid. That seemed to be his own exclusive domain lately. 

Magnussen had his hooks into her. She was here to neutralize the threat, and she had chosen the worst possible moment to do it. Sherlock wondered if his own actions today might have pushed her into this. She needed to let him put it right.

"Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help."

She smiled, but it wasn't warm, and it wasn't for him. "Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step, I swear I will kill you." Weary. Resigned.

_Idle threat. For Magnussen's benefit._

"No, Mrs. Watson." He saw her react to her name, just as he'd intended, bringing John into the equation to ground her. To reach the loving friend he knew her to be. Not the practiced killer he now suspected she must have been before she found John. He smiled. "You won't."

He was looking into her eyes when the gun went off, and his first response was surprise that she could have masked her intent so completely. No warning at all in her eyes. Not the faintest flinch. Professional, then. At least he'd been right about something. 

His body didn't seen to react at all, but his brain instantly launched a rapid-fire search, an emergency scan of the data stored so neatly in a palace that was about to fall. Trying and failing to find a point of reference. Finding no data on how to respond to this. Not yet certain what 'this' even was.

The physical sensations seemed too trivial. Nothing he would interpret as pain. Just a tightly focused impact that would have been easy to overlook, if not for the trickle of incoming data now building to a flood that would soon be impossible to ignore.

Blood. There was a hole in his shirt right over the impact site, and it was beginning to bleed. 

_The shirt isn't bleeding, idiot. She shot you, and it's bad._

His fight or flight response supplied a useless jolt of adrenaline. Flight was no longer possible. Fighting would be a pointless waste of his rapidly vanishing resources. If Mary wanted to shoot him again, she would already have done it.

Pain sensors came back online then and refocused everything on the impact site. He had seen victims react to being shot. John had once told him what it felt like. Sherlock had even tried to imagine the sensation himself, purely as a mental exercise. He had certainly experienced an above average variety of intense pain stimuli over the past two years. His pain threshold was well established. What he was feeling now was empirical proof that some sensations simply had to be experienced first hand to be understood.

The intensity of it took his breath away. From zero to off-the-scale in a heartbeat. Body responses were beginning to overrun the still-functioning part of his brain, forcing it to translate what he needed to survive into familiar faces and voices he could still process with what little he had left.

But the growing certainty that there was nothing he could do to stop this was tearing his focus away from the only thing that still mattered. A thought that kept trying to break through the rising wall of panic.

He wouldn't be able to think at all in a few seconds. It was suddenly that close. 

But just as the pain and the darkness were about to pull him under, he had a moment of absolute clarity. 

John would never know that his wife had killed his best friend, and that killing him had started her down a path that could eventually force her to do the same to him. 

Not unless Sherlock found a way to tell him.

He focused everything that remained on a single goal, crystalized into a two-word mantra that followed him down into the abyss.

_Don't die don't die don't die don't die don't die don't--_

* * * * *

The siren could wake the dead. John regretted the thought as soon as it surfaced in the frantic disbelieving chaos in his head. 

_He's kidding. This is an elaborate, senseless, heartless joke like the bomb in the Tube carriage. Like the engagement ring. Like the first time he died-- Christ, don't number them. He didn't die then. He won't die now. It's not real. It can't--_

"His pressure's bottoming out," the paramedic leaning over Sherlock, called to his partner driving the ambulance. "Pull out the stops."

The driver nodded, and their speed increased to just this side of reckless.

"Sherlock, we're losing you." John leaned around the medic to touch Sherlock's icy left wrist. "Sherlock!"

_That's brilliant. Scream at the patient like it's up to him._

The ambulance took a right turn so abruptly, that John nearly lost his grip on Sherlock's wrist. He closed his fingers, and held on for dear life.

* * * * * 

Greg came off the elevator on the surgical floor at Royal London a little after midnight. John Watson was standing at the bank of public telephones in the corridor to his right. Not moving. Head down. Shoulders slumped. Greg's heart sank, and he just stood for a moment to brace himself. 

The ding of the elevator door closing made John straighten and turn around. When he looked at Greg, there was no hint of recognition, and Greg wondered if he saw him at all. "John?" 

John blinked once, and the light came back. Greg took a deep breath and started toward him. "John, how is he?"

John turned back to the phones. "I need to call Mary and let her know."

"Wait." Greg reached into his coat pocket and brought out the mobile phone he'd found on the carpet next to where Sherlock had fallen. "This is yours, isn't it?" He'd already verified that it was before he took it from the crime scene. Sherlock was speed dial one.

John came over to him and accepted the phone. "Yeah, I dropped it after I called the ambulance. Thanks." 

The absence of emotion in his face and voice was worrisome. Greg didn't think he could still be in shock, but that's what it looked like. "John? Can we sit down somewhere and talk for a few minutes?"

"Sure. What do you need?" John had slipped the phone into his jeans pocket, apparently having forgotten about calling Mary. "The waiting room's down here." He turned and started walking down the corridor. 

Greg watched him go for a moment, noting the lack of any animation beyond what was absolutely necessary to move him where he needed to go. Compared to John's usual energy level, this was barely sleepwalking. A few yards down the hall, John turned right and Greg followed. 

The room was dimly lit by table lamps, plus the glowing screen of a television mounted on the far wall above a long sofa. Scattered in groups of two and four were armchairs and side tables and one smaller sofa near the center of the room. 

John had stopped to talk with the receptionist stationed by the door, and Greg stood back discreetly to wait for him. He had noticed Mycroft on his first scan of the room, and he glanced back that way now while he waited for John. Mycroft was sitting on the smaller sofa, and his PA was with him, typing furiously into a Blackberry. Mycroft looked up at Greg and nodded, then turned back to the woman whose real name Greg had never heard. A moment later, she got up and walked swiftly past him and out of the room.

John's suddenly increased volume made both Greg and Mycroft turn toward the reception desk.

"I understand that," he was telling the woman, close to the limit of his patience. "But it's been three hours since anyone's come out with an update. I was told that it would..." And suddenly, he seemed to run out of steam. His voice trailed off, and his shoulders dropped.

Greg exchanged a look with Mycroft, then walked over to John and put a hand on his shoulder. "John, we need to talk. I'm sorry, but I need your statement while it's all still fresh in your mind." It was meant to distract him, and it seemed to work.

"Okay. Yeah, we can do that." He wandered off toward a pair of chairs a few yards away and sank into the one facing the entrance. 

Greg followed him and took the other chair. He glanced at Mycroft and got another faint nod of acknowledgement. Mycroft had called him an hour ago and heard everything Greg was about to tell John. He had then asked Greg to come to the hospital to be with John. The request had surprised him, but not as much as it would have done a few years ago. John mattered to Mycroft because John mattered so much to Sherlock. It was as simple as that.

Greg waited for John to focus on him. "Magnussen says Sherlock was there for a meeting they had scheduled. Is that right?"

John frowned as if he were trying to remember. "A meeting. Right. We went to meet with Magnussen." 

Greg had heard John try to lie before. This was a pretty fair attempt, considering the shape he was in. "Do you know how Sherlock got hurt?" 

John flinched slightly at the question. "Hurt. Yeah, I guess that's one way of putting it." He took a deep breath. "Magnussen said he didn't see what happened. That someone hit him from behind, and he was unconscious until just before I found them."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, that's what he told me, too. When I asked him how he knew Sherlock had been shot if he didn't see it happen, he said he must have heard it and just didn't realize. Do you buy that?"

John's gaze narrowed. "He got shot. That's what Magnussen said when I asked him what happened. Not 'I think I heard a shot'. It was a statement of fact. How did he know if he didn't see it happen?"

Greg agreed. "Do you think he could be the shooter himself?"

"No. I don't think so, but your forensics team need to check for powder residue on his hands. I checked him for weapons while the medics were getting Sherlock ready for transport. If he had one and stashed it, seems like it would be pretty easy to find. I didn't exactly have the time to search the room."

"I had them check before I let him out of my sight," Greg said, and then realized that John was no longer listening. His expression had taken on the blankness Greg had seen earlier.

Staring at a point in the distance, John spoke softly. "I thought he'd been knocked out like Janine and Magnussen. He was bleeding out, and I was patting his face trying to wake him up. Those seconds mattered."

And there it was. The guilt that John managed to take onto himself in defiance of all reason, whenever Sherlock was in trouble. Greg closed his eyes in a moment of pure exasperation. "John, none of this was under your control." 

John nodded. "Never is. I just get to live with the aftermath." His voice was flat.

Greg had held John together, almost literally, that first night after Sherlock's leap from the roof. He recognized this quiet resignation as the calm before the coming storm. "Have you talked to Mary? Do you want me to get her for you?" If Sherlock didn't make it, Greg knew he would not be able to handle John alone. 

"I was about to call her when you got here." John reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. Paused, looking blankly at the screen. "It's late. She'll be asleep." He put it back in his pocket and sat back. "What else did you need to know?" 

Greg pulled out his notebook. "Magnussen's PA was drugged in addition to the knock on the head. Something the A&E doc said sounded like a memory altering substance," he referred to the notes, "Like the date rape drugs. Rohypnol, GHB, GBU, Ambien. He said they'll test for all of them, but it doesn't really matter which one. His diagnosis was based on the fact the she doesn't seem to have any recollection of how she was knocked out or who did it. Same with the bodyguard, although he got a much heavier blow to the head than she did. Serious concussion."

John was focused on him now. "Not something a burglar would bother with. That sounds like a professional planning to kill Magnussen, but leave the witnesses alive." He frowned. "He went to all that effort to kill Magnussen, but he shoots Sherlock instead and leaves Magnussen with a bump on the head? It makes no sense."

Greg put away the notebook. "I know. Makes you wonder if he was there for Magnussen at all."

John was instantly on alert. "You think he was there to kill Sherlock? That's not possible. No one could have known we would be there."

Greg shook his head. "No, I think they surprised the shooter, and Sherlock took the hit for it. Whatever he was there for, I don't think the primary goal was to kill Magnussen. I think he was after something."

John's eyes narrowed. "He was a blackmailer," he said softly, as if thinking out loud rather than talking to Greg. "Sherlock said--" He broke off and went very still, his focus now riveted on something over Greg's shoulder.

Greg turned to follow his gaze. A man in blue scrubs had just entered the room. Mycroft got to his feet and headed toward them. John stood up slowly, like a man braced for a blow he would never be ready to take.

The man came towards them just as Mycroft reached the group. 

"You're waiting for news on Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," John's voice was barely audible.

"He's my brother. What can you tell us?" Mycroft's smooth facade was firmly in place.

"He's still in surgery, but that's a good sign. I'm one of the surgical nurses. They just brought in some relief staff, and the surgeon asked me to give you an update. I'm afraid no news is good news at this point."

John swallowed visibly. "You were working on him?"

The man smiled. "I was assisting."

John nodded. "Yes, that's what I meant. Was there cardiac damage? Can you tell me what was in the damage path?"

"Sorry, no. I can't give you any details. That will be the surgeon's responsibility. He's holding his own. It shouldn't be more than another hour now." 

Mycroft studied the man for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I see. Thank you." He turned and went back to the sofa.

John smiled vacantly. "Yes, thank you." He sat down.

The nurse looked at Greg and nodded. "We're doing everything we can." He turned and left the way he came. 

Greg turned back to John and found him sitting back with his eyes closed. "John? What did that mean?"

John answered without opening his eyes. "It means we don't know any more now than we did two minutes ago."

Greg tried to engage John in further discussion about the attack, but his interest had evaporated. After a few aborted tries, he stood up and stretched his back. "I think I'll go down and see what they've got in the cafeteria at this time of night." He knew better than to ask if John wanted to come along. "Can I bring you anything? Coffee?"

"No. Thanks." John looked up. "You don't have to stay. I'll call you when we know something."

"I can stay a bit longer. Let me get you some coffee." He got a head shake in response. "Okay, I'll be back shortly."

By the time Greg found the cafeteria and then made his way back to the waiting room through the maze of identical corridors, he was beginning to feel the strain himself. He'd had the same experience as John, after all. Thinking one of his closest friends had killed himself, and feeling that he was in some way responsible. It had been hell for a long time. The thought of going through it again-- for real this time-- was much worse because he knew exactly what it was going to feel like.

But Greg couldn't really compare his loss to John's. What John and Sherlock were to each other was unlike anything Greg had ever seen. They were simply essential to one another in ways that defied definition. Greg envied them both. And he was more afraid for John right now than he had ever been.

When he walked into the waiting room, John was sitting hunched forward with his face buried in his hands, elbows on his knees, and Greg's heart turned over. Mycroft was nowhere in sight. Greg set the two paper cups of coffee on the receptionist's desk without glancing her way and sat quickly down in front of John. "What happened?"

John shook his head back and forth, not raising it from his hands. He took a long, shaky breath and let it out before he looked up. "He's out of surgery. They took Mycroft back to see him."

Greg sat back and exhaled slowly to counteract the dissipating rush of adrenaline that was making him feel slightly sick. "Christ, I thought--" He looked at John more closely. "What's wrong?"

"He's a long way from being out of the woods. His heart rate and blood pressure are unstable as hell. Don't get me wrong, it's a huge relief that he made it through surgery. I really thought he was going to die in the ambulance. He came so close..." John seemed to be looking at a memory. A few seconds later, he literally shook it off and took a slow breath. "The next 24 hours will tell us more."

"John?"

They both turned to see Mycroft looking down at them, leaning on his umbrella with both hands. "They've moved him to a private room. I'm afraid I will have to be absent for a few hours. An issue has arisen that demands my attention. I will return as soon as I can. I have arranged for you to have unlimited privileges, if you want to sit with him."

John was on his feet before Mycroft finished the sentence. "Where?"

"I'll take you to him." Mycroft turned to Greg. "You can stop by for a moment, if you like."

Greg followed them down the hall a few paces behind, listening to Mycroft recite what he'd been told by the doctors, no doubt verbatim. From John's responses, Sherlock was still in very critical condition. Mycroft wasn't saying how he had managed the private room when anyone else would have landed in the critical care ward with a dozen other patients, and John didn't ask. It wasn't hard to guess. 

"Here." Mycroft stopped in front of a closed door next to a large window that showed the entire room and its single occupant surrounded by monitors and support equipment.

Even from ten feet away, Sherlock truly looked like death warmed over, and barely that. Greg heard John's sharp intake of breath and knew that his assessment was the same. 

"You go ahead, John. I'll just stay out here," Greg told him, unnecessarily. John was already on his way.

"Thank you for coming, Greg. He needed a friend." Mycroft turned and walked away, swinging his umbrella in a short arc at his side.

Greg turned back to the window, knowing it would be the last time anyone would see John Watson outside this room until Sherlock's condition was resolved, one way or the other. John was standing at the foot of the bed, hands braced on the footboard. Studying the monitors.

If there's any way he can do it, he'll come back to you, John. I would bet my own life on that.

As he turned to go, he saw John move to the chair next to the bed and take Sherlock's hand. 

* * * * *

End of Chapter 5


	6. Waiting

Mycroft found his PA waiting at the front entrance of the hospital. She glanced up from her Blackberry as he reached the bottom of the stairs, then held the door open for him and followed him to the car. 

Safely in the hyper-secure backseat, Mycroft released a shaky breath, then grimaced at this latest slip in his control.

She looked up, frowning slightly. "Sir?"

He recovered quickly. "Report."

She reached for a button on the panel dividing the passenger and driver's compartments. The concealed laser printer began to hum, and Mycroft accepted the three printed sheets as they appeared through the slot beneath it.

She nodded at the papers in his hand. "The team report that the subject is at home. They will maintain maximum surveillance until further instructed."

Mycroft nodded as he scanned the text. "Nothing on CCTV in the vicinity of Magnussen's building, or on any route between there and the current location?" 

"Nothing at all, sir. The subject was acquired at the current location, not en route."

Mycroft finished reading and handed the papers to his PA, then leaned back and closed his eyes. At no point in his life had he made such an inexcusably stupid mistake. It was only appropriate that the cost should be so unacceptably high. He pressed the communication button and directed the driver to his office at the Diogenes Club. He would be closer to the hospital there than at any of his alternate sites, including his home. Twenty minutes, portal to portal. 

"How is your brother doing?" 

Mycroft turned to look at her. Dropping the customary 'sir' was as close to familiarity as she ever came with him, even after all this time. It was tantamount to a hug, and it expressed her concern as clearly as anything she could have done. 

He cleared his throat. "His doctors are guardedly optimistic. I gather he has impressed them enormously by still being alive."

She studied him for a moment. "Are you all right?"

He considered, then opted for the truth. "No."

He had gathered Sherlock's team of doctors for a brief conference before taking John and Lestrade back to see him. He had briefly considered asking John to join him for the discussion, but decided that he was far too emotionally involved to be objective. 

The medical team had been waiting for him in what appeared to be the doctors' lounge. There was no conference table, just a group of armchairs and a few sofas that looked as if they were used more for sleeping than sitting. They were all standing awkwardly, practically at attention when he'd come into the room, and it was clear the they were not accustomed to being called upon for a group report when there were patients to attend. Mycroft had smiled and thanked them for their time, then asked them all to be seated, as if this were his territory rather than theirs.

The surgeon, a middle-aged Asian man about John Watson's height, began by assuring Mycroft that his brother was stable enough to be moved to the private room he had requested. From the intonation on the word 'requested', the man was telling Mycroft that such special treatment did not meet with his approval. Mycroft merely smiled.

The smile and the control behind it vanished a moment later when the surgeon told him that Sherlock had gone into cardiopulmonary arrest before surgery could begin. After more than twenty minutes of continuous resuscitation efforts with no response, he had stood down the team, prepared to declare him dead. Mycroft had inhaled sharply at that, utterly against his will.

The surgeon had looked closely at him then. "Mr. Holmes, your brother is alive. I was told that you wanted to hear everything that had happened. If this is too upsetting..."

Of course, it was too bloody upsetting, but he had to hear it all. He assured the doctor that he was quite able to continue, and then managed to listen attentively to the rest of the narrative without embarrassing himself further.

The doctors were surprised by their patient's spontaneous recovery, and seemed concerned that Mycroft might view it as the result of a failure on their part. They took pains to assure him that, while rare, the phenomenon was reasonably well known. There had been at least 38 such events recorded over the past twenty years. There was reason to hope that Sherlock would suffer no ill effects from the extended period of asystole.

The remainder of the surgeon's narrative consisted of a litany of damage caused by the bullet and resultant blood loss, all of which Mycroft committed to memory to review later with John Watson. 

Sherlock's unstable heartrate and blood pressure were a source of concern, but he would be closely monitored. The treatment plan was limited to preventing infection and further blood loss, and stabilizing his heartrate and blood pressure. There was nothing else to do but wait.

"The next twenty-four hours will tell us more. We need him to regain consciousness before we can determine the extent of any cognitive damage from oxygen deprivation, but we are optimistic." The surgeon had smiled briefly. "We will keep you informed of any developments either way."

The room had emptied rather quickly then, all except the surgeon. "Mr. Holmes, I must speak frankly. The special consideration for your brother takes away from the time available for other patients. The private room for a critical patient demands that we move equipment and personnel to monitor him. I've been told that it's for his security as well as ours."

"My brother's attacker is still at large. I have stationed security staff inside and outside the hospital, and I assure you that your staff are not in danger. The private room is a necessary part of that security." He smiled. "I appreciate your willingness to accommodate my brother's exceptional requirements."

The surgeon nodded, grudgingly. He crossed his arms and studied Mycroft for a moment. "For any other patient with similar injuries, the odds would not favor survival. Your brother has demonstrated a ferocious will to live, and that could make all the difference. I strongly recommend that you do whatever is necessary to keep that will alive. If there's someone who can do that, whether a relative or a friend, just give their name to the head nurse. I've left orders to have someone with him at all times, and that person should be whomever you think will do him the most good."

"I do have someone in mind."

The surgeon had nodded. "We will keep you apprised of any developments."

Mycroft had relayed nearly all of what the surgeon had told him to John Watson as they were walking to Sherlock's room. At the last moment, he had decided to omit the cardiac arrest because he wasn't sure he would be able to talk about it without revealing his own lack of objectivity. Leaving John to watch over Sherlock had provided Mycroft with the first sense of relief he had felt since he had heard that gunshot on the microphone. 

He was satisfied that any external threat to Sherlock was neutralized by the surveillance. It was, unfortunately, akin to locking the barn door after the horses were already gone. Long gone.

The stupidity of what he had done with the Mary Morstan issue was staggering. He had not yet confirmed that she was, in fact, the shooter, but there was little doubt. The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming, and it been there all along. He had misjudged it and her catastrophically, and now his mistake could well cost him the only person in the world who mattered to him.

He had discovered her true identity and previous career in a routine vetting process during the first month of her association with John. It was part of his promise to Sherlock that he would protect John while he was away. When the results had come back, they had given him pause. The factors against her were obvious, but those in her favor were also compelling.

Keeping John Watson safe had begun to tax even Mycroft's resources by the time Mary had appeared on the scene. Eighteen months after Sherlock's 'death', John was still deeply depressed and so mired in grief that his therapist's notes were beginning to reveal her own frustration. He had moved out of Baker Street the day of the funeral, and had isolated himself from everyone and everything that could remind him of Sherlock. His therapist called it avoidance, and told him he would never recover until he faced his loss.

Mary Morstan's history was only five years deep. She had come to London to work as a nurse, and she was excellent at her job. She volunteered her time at free clinics when she wasn't working. She lived frugally and totally off the radar. She saved her money and bought a house shortly before she and John met. No path of investigation suggested that she had been sent to use John to reach Sherlock. She was simply a woman starting a new life, and she was in love with John Watson. 

So he had allowed the relationship to continue without interference. John had pulled himself together, and life moved forward again. Mycroft reduced surveillance on John to the lightest level and returned his focus to the business of keeping the world on track.

His surveillance of Magnussen was routine and long-standing. When Sherlock had appeared on the face recognition system last night, Mycroft had ordered the monitoring to go live and included directional microphones to pick up what was going on. They had initially been aimed in the wrong direction to pick up the voices, but they had been redirected in time to pick up a sound that was recognizable as a silenced gunshot. Mycroft ordered an ambulance out of an abundance of caution, and it had probably saved his brother's life.

Only fair, since Mycroft's actions had resulted in the reason his brother's life needed saving.

"We're here, sir." 

Mycroft opened his own door and got stiffly out of the car in front of Diogenes. He would do what research he could, but ultimately it would come down to a confrontation. He would tell Mary Watson that he knew what she had done, and demand that she prove him wrong. 

His PA walked around the car to join him. Mycroft looked up at the rare, cloudless sky. The city's perpetual glow dimmed the stars, but the moon was high and full. He took a deep breath. "I want to know the moment she leaves the house and heads for the hospital."

She made a note on her Blackberry. "Done, sir." She followed him into the building.

* * * * *

Eight hours of mind-numbing routine interrupted by four-minutes of choreographed panic. That was how they used to describe the night shift in critical care when John was in training. Four minutes, because that was all the time you had to get oxygen to the brain before it began the swift descent into death. The resuscitations usually came no more than once per shift. More than that, especially if they weren't successful, put everyone on edge for days. 

Twenty minutes ago, this Royal London team had achieved their successful resuscitation for the night, and nearly killed John in the process. While they worked to pull Sherlock back from the brink, John was forced to watch from the hall, gripping the bottom of the window frame so tightly that his fingertips were still tingling. He currently had those fingers wrapped lightly around Sherlock's right wrist. He knew that the monitor would alarm if Sherlock's heartrate took another leap into tachycardia, but he needed to feel the pulse under his fingertips, at least until his own returned to normal.

Either the staff had taken the time to call Mycroft when Sherlock crashed, or he had the room wired. John's phone had gone off while he was standing at the window literally hanging on by his fingertips. He had let the call ring out, but returned it as soon as Sherlock was stable. With both of them still shaky in the aftermath of the near miss, they had sounded like two marathon runners trying to carry on a conversation at mile 25. John had been anxious to return to Sherlock, and had promised to call Mycroft with hourly updates, just to get off the call. He now regretted it. He couldn't call from inside the room, and he did not want to leave Sherlock alone, even for a moment. Not now. Irrational fear or not, it was painfully real to his nervous system. Any time he even crossed the threshold now, the adrenaline rush made it hard to breathe.

He had finally called Mary an hour ago to let her know that Sherlock had been shot. She had wanted to come and be with him, but he asked her to stay home. He said he would call her if anything changed, but now regretted that, too. He realized that he didn't want her to be here. She would divert his focus from where it desperately needed to be. It was going to take all of his resources to help get Sherlock through this. He couldn't permit anything, not even Mary, to distract him. He knew she would understand, but he just couldn't take the time to explain it to her now.

Truthfully, there really wasn't much he could do. The monitors would alert even before John would be able to spot and analyze a problem. He wouldn't even be allowed to help, if that happened again. Just watch from the hall like he last time. Holding Sherlock's hand was for his own comfort, not Sherlock's. If he was aware of John's presence at all, it would be the sound of his voice. Patients recovering from a period of coma sometimes reported that they had heard what happened around them while they were unconscious. Relatives keeping vigil were encouraged to talk to the patient. The voice of a loved one could be a powerful stimulus. John would be pleased to comply, if he could think of something to say that wouldn't come out as either an angry accusation, or a tear-choked plea. Those were the two emotional extremes he seemed to be bouncing between.

Two years ago, he would have given anything for a chance like this. It was the cruelest fulfillment of a wish imaginable. He should have known there would be a price to pay for such a miracle, but he could never have expected it to be this high.

_Yes, well be careful what you wish for. If I hadn't come back..._

If he hadn't come back, John would be happily married and Sherlock would be a vague memory. That's what Sherlock seemed to think, hard as it was for John to accept.

"How can you not know how important you are to me? You said you heard my little speech at your grave. I know feelings and sentiment aren't your thing, but Christ Sherlock. Not even you could have missed what I was trying to say." The pendulum swung abruptly away from anger, and he had to pause, pressing his lips tight together and breathing hard through his nose while he got himself back under control. "You have no right to risk your life like this anymore. Maybe you didn't know before that there are people who love you, but you know it now."

But did he, really? He'd heard the words. He'd even said them in his speech. But did he really understand what they meant? 

They had become masters of oblique communication, he and Sherlock. Even with the past two years of separation, the ability to deflect each other's emotions was as finely honed as it had ever been. They had come close to actually talking about it right after Sherlock came back, but only when their friendship had seemed on the brink of total destruction. Thirty days of his own bullheaded refusal to let Sherlock apologize had nearly done them in. But they had made it right again.

That had lasted until the wedding. Somewhere between that incredible best man speech, which had moved John to tears along with nearly everyone else in the room, and the moment Sherlock had told them what Mary's symptoms meant, something had changed. There had been one single moment that told John just how much. 

All three of them had been surprised by Sherlock's deduction, standing there in the middle of the dancing crowd, trying not to look conspicuous. He'd looked up at Sherlock to say something smart, and Sherlock had been looking at him, his guard not just down, but obliterated. The emotion he was allowing John to see was so open and honest, and unprecedented, that John had no frame of reference on how to respond. Sherlock was deliberately showing him what he was feeling at that moment, and it had blown away everything that had gone before. Sherlock was showing him how much it was costing him to let go, but he was also showing him that it was the only thing he could do. 

A moment later, Mary had pulled him away into a dance. When they came looking for Sherlock a few dances later, he had already left.

"Yeah, and the next time I see your face, it's in a crack den. You ask me to come with you on this job that's too dangerous for any sane human being, and then you run off instead of letting me help. Why do you always do that? Why do you keep everything to yourself and just feed me what you think I need to know? Why do you even bother to take me along? So I can chase after you to pick up the pieces? Well, you miscalculated this time, and I was too late." He was breathing fast, almost hyperventilating with anger. He watched the clock above Sherlock's head, forcing his breathing to slow, counting the seconds between breaths, but his control was gone.

This was his worst nightmare come to life. War had long ago lost center stage, now serving as a mere backdrop to whatever horror his subconscious devised to torture him with Sherlock being hurt or killed in front of him. He could never reach him. Sometimes he couldn't even see him, but Sherlock calling his name, in pain or in fear, would chase him into wakefulness. The dreams had started the night Sherlock came back from the dead. They had been getting worse over the past month, sometimes waking Mary too, although she pretended to be asleep. 

And now they were real.

* * * * *

Coming downstairs when she woke from a dream, or lately from one of John's, unable to get back to sleep, the comforting tick tock of the antique clock in the living room always soothed her. It was the only bit of her old life that had come with her into the new. It needed to be wound every 31 days, and she had set a repeating alarm on her mobile phone for every third Sunday at noon. Ten days early, just to keep the works from slowing down and losing time. It was due to be wound tomorrow. She thought it would be best to just let it wind down now. It would go silent in a ten days. She wondered if she would still recognize her life in ten days.

Sherlock was still alive, and she was grateful for that. She was grateful for John's sake. Whether he would be alive in another few hours remained to be seen. John had told her when he called an hour ago that the odds were against it, but he was still fighting. Mary thought she knew why he was so determined to live. Sherlock would do anything for John, and right now that meant staying alive to protect John from her. It wasn't true, but she could hardly blame him for drawing that conclusion.

She had relived those last seconds over and over. 

The look in Sherlock's eyes when she pulled the trigger was going to haunt her for the rest of her days. Hurt. Betrayal. Disbelief. The same feelings she had now.

If Sherlock died, their lives would never be the same. John would never be the same. The part of John that Sherlock had saved would die with him, and she was to blame. 

There were three possible outcomes. One, Sherlock would die, and his brother would kill her. She had no doubt that Mycroft had discovered her secret early on, and it would not take him long to determine that she had been the one who shot Sherlock. Mycroft had apparently withheld what he knew about her from Sherlock as well as John. He would feel guilt now for having done so, and she would pay for it with her life.

The second possibility was that Sherlock would live, and would tell John who had shot him. John loved her, but he had loved Sherlock first. Sherlock was literally the wounded party in this, and John's sense of loyalty and justice would not allow him to forgive her. Even with a baby on the way, John was likely to side with Sherlock against her. She doubted Sherlock would allow her to be prosecuted and put in prison, for John's sake, but her life would still be over. 

The third, and least likely, was that Sherlock would live and would keep her secret. Mycroft would not be so forgiving, and Magnussen would still be there waiting to take her down unless she swore her loyalty to him. Even with Sherlock's cooperation, her life would be over. Owing her loyalty to both Magnussen and Mycroft would put her in an impossible situation. As if she weren't already there.

None of the scenarios left her with John in her life. None of them left her with any options, and she had done it all to herself with a single instant of desperation. Poorly considered, fatally wrong.

From the instant she had heard Sherlock's voice tonight, she'd had only seconds to react. Never at any moment of her career had she ever been in such an impossible position. She had always planned every assignment to the smallest detail. Anticipated every possibility and developed a contingency for each, going over every aspect well in advance until her responses would require no thought. Her lightning reflexes, respected and feared by her colleagues and adversaries alike, amounted to nothing more than meticulous planning and practice.

But this had not been an assignment. This time, her own emotions drove her response. Fear of discovery. Fear of losing the love of her life. Fear for the future of her unborn child. Her finely honed instincts had acted almost without her conscious participation. Sherlock replaced Magnussen as the more immediate threat, and she had made the worst decision possible to address it. 

She knew what had triggered her lethal response. Sherlock had meant to soothe her by reminding her that she was threatening to kill John's best friend. Her friend, too.

_No, Mrs. Watson. You won't._

But it had the opposite effect. The mention of John had pushed her over the edge. Everything that was now good in her life was wrapped up in John. Sherlock was a threat, and she pulled the trigger.

Remorse was pointless. Running was an option, but not for much longer. When Mycroft put together that she had done this, he would have her watched until Sherlock's status was determined. If she ran, she would have to run far and fast, using the very last of her cover identities. She would be gone from here forever. John would be gone from her life forever.

Even at the risk of her own life, she could not face the possibility that she would not see him again. Even if he knew the truth and hated her for it, she would prefer that to never seeing him. It was selfish and foolish, but that seemed to be her default motivation now.

The next time the phone rang, it could mean either the end or the beginning. Until then, all she would do was wait.

* * *

End of Chapter Six


	7. Waking

Greg inspired a few raised eyebrows when he walked into NSY at a little after two in the morning, heading for his office. He wondered if it was just the late hour, or if they were picking up on his mood. He nodded to a few of the officers who caught his eye, and made a fair stab at a smile. With the door safely closed behind him, he sank into his chair without bothering to remove his coat. 

While he waited for his computer to boot up, he pulled out his notes on the interviews. Janine Murtagh, Magnussen's PA and, weirdly, Mary Watson's maid of honor, would probably never remember anything, going by what the doctor had said. The bodyguard with the concussion would also be unlikely to know who had hit him from behind. There were no cameras in Magnussen's private office, or in his residence upstairs where the shooting had taken place. That left Sherlock as the only potential witness, and his status was still unknown. Even if he survived, there was a good chance that his memory of the event would be erased by the trauma of being without oxygen for a dangerously long time, if the doctors had it right.

Looking for the shooter by finding the motive behind the attack could work, if there was any real possibility that Sherlock was the true target. That was doubtful. There were much more accessible venues for an attempt on Sherlock's life. No, Magnussen was the target. His list of enemies was impossibly long, and its members were dispersed worldwide. Sifting through them all for a group of likely suspects would require Magnussen's cooperation, and that had already been refused.

If Sherlock died without being able to describe his attacker, the chances of closing the case were slim to none.

If Sherlock died, the chances of John Watson ever recovering from it were almost as poor.

Greg had hoped that having Mary in his life would have lessened the impact this time, but it didn't seem to be working out that way. Not going by what Greg had seen tonight at the hospital, or by the tone of Mycroft Holmes' request that Greg come immediately to be with John. He knew why Mycroft had thought to call him. He had already been down this road twice before. 

Nobody had been surprised two years ago by how hard it had hit John, seeing Sherlock kill himself. Greg had gone to Baker Street that first day knowing what he would find. No one had been surprised when John moved out of the flat a few days later and holed up in a bedsit across town. As the months had passed, and the media lost interest in the story, John had seemed to fade from memory along with it. Greg had called him less and less often as time went by. None of his messages were ever returned, and he had finally decided that maybe he was just too painful a reminder of what John had lost, so he stopped calling.

A few days before what would have been the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, Greg had been wakened at three o'clock in the morning by a call from Mycroft Holmes. His surveillance team had alerted him that John had been sitting on a bench across the road from Bart's for three hours, and they were becoming concerned by the implications. Mycroft had thought it would be a good idea to intervene before things took a bad turn. 

John was still sitting in the same spot an hour later when Greg had stepped out of a taxi on the other side of the ambulance garage. He didn't look up when Greg joined him on the bench, but he did smile at whatever his gaze was fixed on. "Sherlock was right. His brother does send you to check up on us, doesn't he?"

"He just thought you might need a friendly ear."

John had choked out a laugh. "And you think this is some pathetic play for attention. Lovely image I've left you all with."

Greg had ducked his head, trying to meet John's gaze. "Nobody's judging. We just want you to know you're not alone."

John had taken a sharp breath and looked up. "You don't know how much I wish that was true."

Greg hadn't needed to follow his gaze to know that he was looking at the ledge where Sherlock had stood. "John, I--"

"Why can't I stop? I don't understand." He'd taken a shaky breath that threatened tears. "What's wrong with me?"

"Anybody would be upset, John. Hell, I still think of him every day, and I wasn't..." Wasn't what? In love with him? Greg had never believed that about them, and he still didn't. But he had never seen two friends who needed each other as much as Sherlock and John. Whatever they had been to each other, the loss of it was draining the life out of John Watson. "I wasn't his best friend. There's nothing wrong with you, and there's nothing wrong with what you're feeling."

John had turned to look at him then. "You wouldn't say that if you knew what I'm feeling."

"Then, tell me. Let me help."

John had held his gaze for a moment, then looked back at the roof. His voice was a strained whisper, and every line of his body sagged in defeat. "I want to let go."

Greg had not been surprised when Mycroft picked up on the first ring. An hour later, Greg accompanied John to a private hospital arranged and paid for by Sherlock's brother. Greg didn't see him again for four months.

New Scotland Yard had been in the process of refitting some of the older offices, and Greg's desk was slotted for replacement. As he'd sorted through ten year's worth of miscellany, he had started to fill a shoebox with things Sherlock had left behind. When he ran across the DVD that he'd made the man record for John, he knew what he needed to do with it all.

John had sounded almost back to normal when Greg had called asking to stop by, but less than a minute into the visit, he'd realized how far from 'back to normal' John still was. The smile was empty of warmth. Not forced. Just lifeless. 

But the box was already there, and he made the best of it. Tried to make a joke of it, and that was worse. 

"Maybe I shouldn't have brought it," Greg had said to John's increasingly distant smile.

"It's okay. Probably won't even watch it." He was holding the DVD case with his fingertips.

Greg had left a few minutes later, as concerned as he'd been that night in front of Bart's. The next time he'd run into John was in the first week of October, and the difference had been like night and day. John and Mary were coming out of the Landmark Hotel as Greg was headed in with a date for dinner. There was just the briefest shadow over John's face when he had recognized Greg before his smile had come back to full power.

"Mary Morstan, this is an old friend, Greg Lestrade," John had said, and Greg remembered feeling ridiculously pleased that John still considered him a friend.

It had been clear that John and Mary were in love, and Greg had found himself enjoying his dinner that night in a way he hadn't done for months. He never saw the woman who had been his date after that night, and right now, he couldn't even recall her name.

After Sherlock's mind-blowing return from the not-dead, things had gotten rocky again for awhile. By the day of John and Mary's wedding, life seemed finally headed in the right direction. Almost an entire month of normal. 

Greg blew out a long breath and scrubbed at his face with both hands. Then he flexed his fingers, propped his notebook next to the keyboard, and began to type his reports.

 

* * * * *

 

At the twenty-four hour mark, Mycroft joined John in his vigil. The doctors were less optimistic with every hour that passed without any sign of Sherlock returning to consciousness. His vital signs had stabilized at less than optimal levels, but there had been no further flirtations with cardiac arrest. His body was dealing with the trauma. The fear was for his mind. Mycroft was here now because he could no longer focus on his job. He was too haunted by the thought that he might miss that storied last moment of lucidity before his brother lost his last hold on life. 

He had come into the room and stood at the foot of Sherlock's bed, just watching him breathe. John had glanced up, but said nothing. The mood in the room had changed from anxious anticipation to quiet desperation. Hope not yet extinguished, but fading.

"He doesn't respond to deep pain stimulus. They've tried everything." John may have been talking to Mycroft, but he had not taken his eyes from Sherlock's face.

Mycroft nodded. "Could the morphine keep him from responding?"

"There should have been some response," John answered, shaking his head. "The longer he remains in this state..." He looked up at Mycroft. "Did they call you?" The look in his eyes was pure dread.

"Yes."

John closed his eyes.

Mycroft moved to the chair on the opposite side of the bed and sank into it. The back of Sherlock's left hand was pierced with an IV cannula, so he rested his fingers on his brother's wrist. "Would any test be able to tell if his brain was damaged by the lack of oxygen?"

"The tests show no obvious damage. but he's still unconscious. The tests won't matter if he never wakes up." John's voice caught on the last word, and he reached for the paper cup of coffee on Sherlock's bedside table.

Mycroft watched John swallow with obvious difficulty. His expression was strained and he looked like a man on the brink of collapse. "John, I wasn't entirely forthcoming when I relayed the doctors' report." He heard John take a deep breath. "There was a cardiac arrest before surgery began."

John went utterly still. "How long was he down?" 

"Twenty-three minutes of resuscitation. Three minutes after they gave up, his heart started again on its own." Mycroft had been looking at Sherlock's hand as he said this. At John's accelerating breaths, he looked across the bed and found John looking at him with a mixture of anger and despair. "John, I'm telling you this because you need to understand that he literally fought his way back from the dead. If there's any way humanly possible, he will make it all the way back."

John shook his head. "No, you don't understand, Mycroft. Twenty-six minutes is way too long. There could be damage to his heart and his brain from that alone, forget the damage the bullet and blood loss may have done." He took another shaky breath. "This is not the good news you seem to think."

Mycroft huffed a breath. "The alternative would have been for him to die before surgery. I'm sure you would not have preferred that outcome."

"No, but it doesn't matter what I 'prefer'. He doesn't care, and he never asks. If he'd never taken us up there, which you practically dared him to do, we wouldn't be--" John broke off, breathless with fury.

"John, I wonder if I might have a few moments alone with my brother."

John looked at him for a moment, then got slowly to his feet without letting go of Sherlock's hand. He leaned close, and for a moment it looked as if he was going to kiss Sherlock's cheek. But he put his lips close to Sherlock's ear, whispering loud enough that Mycroft heard the words. "I'll be right back. Don't you even think about leaving without me."

* * * * *

Mary grabbed the phone to her ear, groggy from sleep that she didn't remember falling into. "John? Are you all right?"

His breath made static on the line. "I need you."

Oh, no. "John, is Sherlock okay?"

"I don't think he's going to make it, Mary. Mycroft is here. I need you." His voice was ragged with grief.

"I'm on my way. I love you."

She was surprised to see sunlight coming through the kitchen window. Her body was stiff and sore from the hour or so sleep she'd gotten sitting at the table with her head on her arms, but she shook it off to get rapidly dressed. The taxi arrived a few minutes after she locked the front door and sat down on the steps to wait.

* * * * *

After John closed the door behind him, Mycroft stood up and walked to the other side of the bed. Sherlock's head was turned that way, maybe listening unconsciously to the sound of John's voice. He sat down in John's seat, and placed his hand over Sherlock's. For several minutes, he watched his brother's face for any sign of awareness.

"Sherlock, I owe you an apology. I badly misjudged a situation some months ago, and you are paying for that mistake." He watched his brother for a reaction, then smiled. "I had half-expected that an apology from me would be shocking enough to wake you, but that's not why I offered it. I need to ask two favors of you. The first is that you employ that ferocious will to fight your way back from this. It's my fault that you've been hurt, and I don't think I can live with it if you don't recover." He paused to regain control, surprised by how much the admission affected him. Surprised to suddenly realize how true it was. A world without his brother was unthinkable. "The second is that you refrain from saying anything to John about who shot you until you and I have a chance to talk about it. What she did was the inevitable result of actions I set in motion, and I have a plan to address it." He took a breath, choosing his next words carefully. "Your doctors seem to believe that your brain may have suffered irreparable damage from this, but they also thought you died before they could even begin to save you. You proved them wrong. Please, Sherlock. Do it again." 

When John came back to the room, Mycroft had returned to his own chair, both hands clasped in his lap.

John took his place at Sherlock's right side and reclaimed his hand. "I called Mary," he said softly. He sat back and scanned the monitors.

Mycroft heard the beeps change at the same time that he saw John sit forward, ramrod straight in his chair. The heart monitor had sped up, but then steadied. John let out a shaky breath.

The heartrate remained higher than it had been before. When Sherlock's breathing quickened, John got instantly to his feet. 

"Sherlock, it's John. Can you hear me?" His left hand was resting on Sherlock's shoulder, his right cradling his face.

Mycroft stood up and took his brother's hand. 

"Sherlock, it's John. Come on, I know you're in there."

The heart monitor sped up again. John looked up. "It's okay. He's still stable." 

Sherlock pulled in a quick breath, and turned his head to the right. Toward John. And he opened his eyes.

He clamped them shut an instant later, and gasped.

"It's all right. It will ease up in a minute." John reached over and pressed the call button for the nurses' station, then hit the button on the morphine pump three times to increase the dosage. "Just breathe." He bowed his head and whispered, "Please, God."

Mycroft took the opportunity to lean close. "Sherlock, it's Mycroft. Look at me."

Sherlock turned toward Mycroft. With obvious difficulty, he opened his eyes again. John moved quickly to Mycroft's side of the bed to put himself in Sherlock's line of sight. Sherlock looked at John then Mycroft, but it wasn't clear if he recognized either of them. A breathless wait later, he whispered, "Mary," looking straight at Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded, and Sherlock closed his eyes. 

"He's all right. He's all right." John said it with a touch of disbelief. Then he went back to his chair and sank into it. A moment later, he bent forward and covered his face with both hands.

Mycroft stood watching his brother for a moment, then walked to the door as a nurse appeared in response to John's call button press. He stepped back to let her in. "John, I have some calls to make. Please tell Sherlock I will be back later." He waited until John acknowledged him with a nod. Then he stepped out of the room and let the door close behind him.

* * * * *

 

They were about ten minutes away from Royal London when her phone went off again. Heart sinking, thinking it would be John telling her that Sherlock had died, she looked at the caller ID. Withheld. Not John. She took a steadying breath, then answered the call with an odd sense of finality. "Yes, hello?"

"Mrs. Watson. This is Mycroft Holmes."

"Is John all right?" It was the most neutral thing she could think of to say.

Mycroft's tone was cool and distant. "Your husband is fine, Mrs. Watson. In fact, I would say he is beside himself with relief." Before she could respond, he added, "I wonder if you would stop and see me before you go up to see him. I'm in my car out front."

_The good news is, Sherlock is apparently improving. The bad news..._

"Yes, I can do that."

"Good. I'll expect you shortly." He ended the call.

Mary sat back and closed her eyes. 

_He knows._

* * * * *

End of Chapter 7


	8. Two Masters

  
She spotted Mycroft Holmes' black sedan sitting in front of the hospital and directed her driver to pull in behind it. The sedan's driver had apparently been watching for her. While she was paying the fare, he got out and went to the passenger door to wait. She recognized his quick assessment of her threat potential, and she returned the favor. Military bearing and haircut. Dark suit meticulously tailored to his well-toned body. Comm earpiece left side. Armed. Bodyguard. He nodded as she approached, then reached down and opened the door.

Sherlock's brother was facing her, sitting with his back angled toward the opposite door. He looked as imperious and impeccable as he had on the only other occasion she had ever seen him. She and John had come to 221B to work on wedding plans, and Mycroft was just leaving. John had introduced her, and Sherlock's brother had been polite, but distant. She'd heard of Mycroft Holmes and his brother before she had ever met John. A wiser woman in her position would have avoided John to stay well clear of the senior Holmes, but Sherlock had supposedly been dead for more than a year when she'd met John. By the time she learned otherwise, it was far too late. That day in 221B, there'd been a flash of something in Mycroft's expression. It was only later that she learned he'd known more about her at that first meeting than anyone else in the room.

The driver closed the door, and Mycroft pressed a button on the armrest between them. There was a soft electronic click from every access point on the car. They were locked in. "Thank you for joining me."

"How is Sherlock?" She mirrored his posture, putting as much space between them as possible without looking as if she were shrinking against the door. She was wary of him, but not as frightened as she probably should be.

"He regained consciousness a short time ago. I'm told it is a positive indication. Your husband certainly seems pleased."

She knew John would be beside himself with relief. Why hadn't he called to tell her? "Is John all right?"

He studied her calmly. "Are you asking me if Sherlock has told him that you are the person who shot him?"

For a moment, she couldn't breathe. If John knew, then nothing else mattered.

Holmes didn't wait for her response. "He hasn't done so yet, but unless you listen very carefully to what I am about to say, I will do it for him. I believe that you love your husband, which is what tells me that you don't truly understand how important he and my brother are to one another. If you did, you would know that you might just as well have aimed that bullet at John."

It took a moment to find her voice. "I know that."

"The first time I met your husband, I attempted to enlist his help in keeping me apprised of Sherlock's activities. He refused. A few hours later, he killed a man to save my brother's life. John has become my greatest ally when it comes to protecting my brother from himself. Sherlock relies on John completely, and the loss of that friendship would cause irreparable damage to both of them. I will do whatever is necessary to keep them in each other's lives."

Her mind was racing. If he knew that she had shot Sherlock, then why were they even having this conversation? Why not have her arrested? Or 'disappeared'? Or did he just enjoy torturing his prey before he bit through the jugular? 

If he wanted to keep John and Sherlock together, was he going to use that to justify getting rid of her? She took a steadying breath. "I'm not the reason their friendship has suffered. Sherlock hurt John more than he can possibly understand and then let him suffer for two years. I saved John from what your brother did to him, and I actually helped get them back together. I'm not in the way, if that's what you're implying."

His smile was chilling. "I'm fully aware of what it did to John when he believed Sherlock to be dead, and I've spent the past few hours watching it happen all over again. If Sherlock had died, I doubt even you would have been able to save John this time. I suggest you consider the possibility that your decision to pull that trigger might have been about removing someone you quite logically see as a rival."

She was suddenly livid with anger. "That's absurd. I acted on reflex, and it was not what I planned, but it was not about John! I have never seen Sherlock as anything but John's best friend, and anyone who thinks they see more than that is a clueless idiot."

He let the silence stretch out for a moment. "And even a clueless idiot would recognize that bit of defensive overreaction as an admission. You will need to perform a more honest self-assessment. I need your fully-informed cooperation if you hope to safely navigate this minefield you've wandered into. I do not wish to remove you from the picture, Mrs. Watson. Your husband would not be much support for Sherlock if he lost you."

Mary realized suddenly that he had found a use for her that somehow outweighed what she had done. He would have no leverage, if John knew. That thought calmed her. "What do you want from me?"

Mycroft seemed pleased. "I will protect your secrets, in exchange for which you will become an even greater ally to me than your husband. You have the skillset to identify threats that Sherlock ignores, and you can respond to them in ways he's not trained to do. You have the expertise to know what information will be useful to me, and you will make it possible for me to stay ahead of him. You will regain Sherlock's trust, and life will move forward on a safer path for all of us." 

She had been considering the possible outcomes almost since the instant she had pulled the trigger. Mycroft asking for her help had been nowhere among them. "In exchange for my cooperation, you will ensure that John never finds out about my history, or that I shot Sherlock?" 

"Yes."

"How can you stop Sherlock from telling him? And what about Magnussen? Or, do you expect me to make another attempt at resolving that issue myself?"

"Sherlock will do anything to avoid hurting John now. He won't tell him what you did. As for Magnussen, everyone has pressure points, including him."

She had no doubt that if Magnussen indeed had a pressure point, Mycroft Holmes could find it. "I'm certainly willing to try, but I doubt Sherlock will be interested in my protection."

He smiled. "It's your job to make certain that he never knows he's being protected. If he finds out what you're doing, you'll be as useless as the dozens of surveillance teams I've tried over the years. It won't be easy, but then you'll lose a great deal more than a job if you fail."

It was the nearest he had come to a threat, but she heard it clearly. "I will do my best."

He nodded. "I believe you." He shifted his position so he was seated facing ahead. "We'll be talking again soon. Good morning, Mrs. Watson." He pressed the button, and all of the doors unlocked.

She got out, and the car pulled away the moment she closed the door. When she'd gotten into it, she hadn't been entirely certain that she would be alive when the left it. Now, all she wanted was to find John. 

He found her instead. She was halfway up the stairs to the third floor when he called her name. He met her at the top of the stairs and wrapped her in a hug that was pure relief. And then he innocently ripped it away. Sherlock's first word when he woke up, he told her with teasing concern, was her name.

He took her to Sherlock's room, and they stood outside at the large window while two nurses tended to routine tasks.

"They had to increase the morphine after he woke up. He's in a lot of pain." John wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tipped his head to rest against hers. "Christ, Mary, it was so close. I really thought..." He squeezed her shoulders. "He's gonna make it." His voice had dropped to a whisper that could have been a prayer.

The nurses came out of the room, and Mary got her first clear view of the patient. He looked even worse than she had expected, and this was the improved version. "John, why don't you go get some coffee. I'll sit with him for a bit. You must be exhausted."

He stepped back and smiled at her. "I guess I could hardly leave him in better hands."

The trust in his eyes ripped a hole in her heart. "I'll watch out for him. Go take a break." She squeezed his hand.

He turned and looked through the window, his right hand splayed out on the glass. "If he wakes up, tell him I'll be right back."

She walked a few paces into the room and stopped. The lighting was very low, and the curtains were closed. The hum of support equipment blended with the low purr of a fan that was running on the table under the window. She wondered why they would have felt the need to circulate air in a room that was neither hot nor stuffy. The artificial breeze was blowing across Sherlock's bare chest, and it made her chilly just looking at him. She walked to the far side of his bed and pulled up the light blanket that had been pushed down near his feet.

When she touched his left shoulder to see if he felt cold, he pulled in a sharp breath that snapped her focus to his face. He was looking at her. His eyes were wet and barely open, but he was trying. 

"Sherlock, do you know who I am?" She was leaning close and speaking softly. "It's Mary, Sherlock." She tried to keep her voice calm. "I know you have no reason to believe me, but I'm so sorry."

He was fighting to keep his eyes open, but there was no comprehension in them. She wasn't even sure he could see her. "Mycroft said you won't tell John. I need you to promise me. You don't tell him. Sherlock? You don't tell John." She touched his forehead gently. "Look at me, and tell me that you're not gonna tell him."

His eyes closed again, and she looked at the settings on the morphine pump. At that dosage, there was very little chance that he'd understood a word she'd said. God help her if Mycroft was wrong. 

She pulled the blanket and sheet up to cover his shoulders, then sat down to wait.

John came back ten minutes later with two cups of coffee. He handed one to her, then set his own down on the table beneath the window. Before he sat down in the chair, he stood next to the bed and just looked at his friend. He brushed back a few strands of hair from Sherlock's forehead with such tenderness that it made her heart twist. When he sat down, he looked across at her and smiled a little self-consciously. 

"I've been holding his hand for 30 hours now. I'll stop when he can tell me to piss off." He settled back with his right arm extended, his hand resting over Sherlock's. 

She had almost taken this away from him. Mycroft was right. No punishment would have been enough if she had succeeded.

* * * * *

Magnussen enjoyed the view from his desk. It was impressive by design, intended to present him to his visitors as a man who had London -- and by extension, the world-- at his feet. His chair was positioned to keep his face in relative shadow, backlit by the vista behind him. It also placed his visitor's face in full light and stripped away any artifice. Useful, as well as appealing to the eye.

Much like his PA.

Janine Murtagh was quite easy on the eyes. Her beauty was earthy rather than flashy. Seductive in a less obvious way that made her approachable. His previous assistants had all been men. Efficient, but of limited use as distractions. He soon learned the value of a beautiful, well-dressed woman moving about when client negotiations needed some redirection. She was competent, pleasant, and exceeding his wildest expectations in ways he could never have predicted.

All of his employees above a certain level were subject to ongoing periodic checks into their personal activities, and each knew it on a superficial 'part of the employment contract' level. What none of them knew was the extent or frequency of those checks, or that he had a meticulously cross-referenced database in his mind palace that was kept constantly updated. Something as mundane as his PA joining a yoga club, could have momentous import, if correlated with the right bit of data.

Mary Morstan had been simply one of the women Janine socialized with at the yoga class. When the intriguing brevity of her history had turned up in a routine check, he had ordered a deeper look. When that investigation began to hit one wall after another, he'd brought in his resources from various intelligence services, and been temporarily stunned by the results. The key to Mycroft Holmes had just been dropped into his hands. Owning Mary Morstan would accomplish what he had been unable to do with years of trying. He would have intimate access to the inner circle. Pillow talk with her husband would give him insight into his best friend who happened to be the brother, and pressure point, of his ultimate target. Mycroft Holmes would, at long last, cease to be a thorn in his side and become the most powerful asset of all.

But then Sherlock Holmes had unexpectedly injected himself into the equation. It appeared that he had taken up with Janine, but it was obviously a ruse whose purpose was not immediately clear. He'd heard that the young Holmes was as impressive a genius as his older brother. Hardly a man who would enjoy a relationship with a woman like Janine. It became apparent that Sherlock Holmes was using Janine to gain access to him, but it wasn't until Holmes approached him about Lady Smallwood that the plan fell into place.

He had gone to Holmes' flat, goaded him, dangled the bait, and opened the trap. As expected, he'd appeared at the office and tricked Janine into letting him in. The rest would have been simply paperwork. It was a burglary of an occupied dwelling, and it would be an excellent bargaining tool. 

It would have worked perfectly, had he not underestimated Mary Watson. He actually owed Sherlock Holmes his life, as he had no doubt that the woman would have killed him. Instead, she had acted so perfectly for his own purposes that he could still barely believe his luck. He now had them all. It was a staggering piece of good fortune. 

 

* * * * *

His head was filled with thick, gray fog like cotton wool. He felt heavy and light at the same time. Buzzy. Cool, plastic scented air and chorus of electronic beeps. Coarse, bleached sheets. Hospital.

Not dead. 

He struggled to open his eyes to a swimming blur of shapes and colors.

"John?"

The shapes moved closer and he tried to blink them into focus. A warm pressure abruptly left his hand and moved to his face. 

"I'm right here." John's voice. "Are you in pain?"

The pain was there, but bearable. He remembered it much worse. This was fine. He tried to smile.

"Sherlock, can you look at me?" John's voice.

Someone had said that before. Not John. He tried to locate the memory, but his thoughts kept skittering out of reach, banging into each other and coming back jumbled together.

_Look at me. Sherlock? You don't tell John._

Mary's voice. Mary's face. Out of focus. Too close. Threatening. Dangerous. He forced his eyes open. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

"Sherlock, lie still. You'll hurt yourself." John's voice, urgent now.

Hands on his shoulders. Beeps. Dark. Sleep.

When the light began to filter through his closed eyelids an unknown time later, his head felt clearer. He listened for any sign that John was still in the room, but there was nothing. He was alone.

He opened his eyes a crack. Daylight. He took a tentative breath, and the fire in his chest made him gasp, which made it worse. His vision blurred with tears.

He was fumbling blindly for a call button, or a morphine pump, whichever he might find first.

"Wait, I'll get it. Hold on. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I just stepped out two minutes ago." 

John.

Beeps. 

"I bumped the dose. You'll feel better in a minute. Just breathe." 

John's hands on his shoulders.

"Better?"

The fog was coming back, but he didn't mind. It was better than this fascinatingly unbearable pain in his chest. "John?"

"Yes, I'm right here. Can you open your eyes?" John's hand on his forehead.

Sherlock turned his face into John's touch. "Hurts."

"It hurts to open your eyes?"

It was John's Doctor voice, and it made him smile. "No. Chest." He was afraid to take a deep enough breath for a complete sentence.

"I need you to look at me, Sherlock. Come on. Open your eyes." John's stern doctor voice. "I'll close the drapes. It's too bright."

Look at me. Something dark. Just out of reach.

Rattle of drapery hooks on the track. Swish of fabric as the drapes were pulled shut. The light level in the room went down. He opened his eyes. John was leaning over him, so close that he could almost nip his nose. The thought made him giggle, and it barely hurt at all. Drugs must be kicking in.

"What's so funny?" John felt his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Kiss your nose." He meant to say 'nip', and that escalated the giggles.

John raised up a bit to get a better look at him. "You really are high as a kite, aren't you?" He was smiling. "Do you know where you are?"

"Mmmm. Hospital. How long?"

John's smile vanished. "Three days." His voice sounded tight.

Sherlock squinted, trying to see what was making John sound like that. "Are you all right?"

John turned his face away, and Sherlock frowned. It was getting harder to talk. He was so tired, but John seemed upset, and he needed to know why. A thought occurred. "Am I all right?"

John took in a sharp breath and straightened. His face wasn't turned away now, but it was too far away for Sherlock's limited range of focus. He made a clumsy grab for John's hand where it rested on the bedrail. "John?" He heard the beeps from the monitor pick up. 

So did John. He looked up at the display and took a shaky breath. 

"John, what's wrong?" Full sentence, but it cost him. He wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer.

"I'm okay, Sherlock." He leaned close again, and brushed one hand gently over Sherlock's forehead and down the side of his face, stroking his thumb softly over the cheekbone. "You're good now. I promise. Just rest." His voice was still rough.

"I'm sorry." He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, and he let it all slip away.

John checked the monitors again to verify that Sherlock's heartrate and pressure were back to where they had been before John had lost control of his treacherous emotions. Too little sleep. Too much stress. Too many hours of unrelenting, useless adrenaline. He had managed not to fall apart through it all. He had no idea what had touched him off just now, but he could not allow it to happen again. Barely out of the woods, drugged out of his mind, Sherlock had picked up that John was upset. Sherlock would worry about him now, and that was the last thing he needed. 

John should go home and get some rest. Take a shower. Shave. His personal hygiene for the past three days had consisted of splashing cold water on his face a few times a day, and brushing his teeth courtesy of the patient kit in Sherlock's bedside table. With Sherlock's acute sense of smell, he could probably tell when John was within a hundred yards now, just by sniffing him out.

He should go home. He should. And he would. Soon.

Just a few more hours. In case Sherlock needed him.

He walked around the bed to his chair, and sank into it. He stretched his arm along the bed and placed his hand over Sherlock's. A moment later, he turned the chair so he could lay his head down on his bent arm without letting go of Sherlock's hand.

* * * * *  
End of Chapter 8


	9. Home

Sherlock had been a bit off the mark with his prediction. They hadn't had to restart his heart on the way to the A&E. They didn't even make it to the door of the flat before he crashed. They had shocked his heart three times so far, and nothing. All John could do was stand and watch.

Mary was doing the same from the other side of the room where she'd remained since Sherlock had collapsed in the middle of defending her with what might literally have been his last breath. 

In less than an hour, the world had turned into an unrecognizable horror that not even his worst nightmares had ever approached. 

Mary wasn't Mary. Nothing he knew about her was true. She was an assassin, and she had tried to kill Sherlock. And from what he was seeing now, she may well have succeeded.

The medics had been performing CPR for ten minutes now, and they were beginning to get that look John had seen too many times in his career. Determined to keep trying, but coming to accept that it was futile. 

If his heart had held on for just five more minutes, they would have been in the ambulance and on the way to the hospital. Instead, they were trapped between two equally bad alternatives. Keep working on him in the flat where each passing moment reduced his chances of survival, or stop CPR for as long as it would take to navigate the gurney down the narrow stairs and around a 180 degree turn while his heart and brain quickly died of oxygen deprivation.

It was impossible to imagine tomorrow. 

"Hold compressions. I'm gonna shock him again." The medic doing the chest compressions pulled his hands away and straightened up on his knees. The other medic applied the fourth shock, and immediately pressed two fingers to Sherlock's carotid. A moment later, he nodded to his partner. "He's back. Let's go."

John grabbed the doorframe and held on when his knees threatened to drop him. Across the room, Mary made a sound that could have been a muffled sob. He refused to look at her.

Sherlock's heart was working again, but whatever had caused the arrest was still going on, and time was critical. The medics were halfway down the stairs before John could get his legs in motion. 

The race to the hospital was a nightmare of déjà vu, except that this time Sherlock was conscious and in such intense pain that all he could do was gasp into the oxygen mask, tears squeezing from tightly clenched lids.

Neither of them spoke. John couldn't trust his voice. Sherlock couldn't afford the oxygen.

John kept his eyes on the heart monitor and prayed.

It took eleven minutes to reach the A&E. John let go of Sherlock's hand and waited until the gurney disappeared through the doors to the treatment room before he backed up to a chair and collapsed. He had let Sherlock's condition deteriorate to this point because he was so wrapped up in his own misery that not even his best friend bleeding out in front of him had registered until it was too late. If Sherlock hadn't had the presence of mind to call for help before he came up those stairs, he would never have left the flat alive, and that was John's fault. All of it was his fault. Sherlock had risked his life for him again. Maybe for the last time. 

They took him straight to surgery because there was no time to wait and see if he could be stabilized. John had robbed them of that.

Three hours later, the surgeon took John and Mycroft to a private consulting room. There were spatters of Sherlock's blood on the front of his blue scrubs and his shoe covers. John couldn't stop looking at it.

"He will be monitored in Recovery for another hour or so before we move him to his room. We've repaired the damage, but this is a very serious situation. He didn't have the reserves for another hit like this." He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing in frustration. "I would like to know what possessed him to do something so foolish." He looked questioningly at Mycroft and John.

"We don't know," Mycroft said smoothly. "I will station security outside his room now." He glanced at John. "I see that I should have done so from the beginning."

John listened only peripherally to the rest. The bottom line was that nothing made sense anymore, and Sherlock may have killed himself trying to put it right.

Mycroft had very little to say to him. He was outwardly calm, but John knew he was seething with fury at both John and Sherlock. Mostly at John. The clipped delivery of the few sentences he had spoken to John said it as clearly as a slap across the face. He blamed John for this, and if Sherlock died, John would never be forgiven.

If Sherlock died, the last thing John would care about was what Mycroft Holmes thought of him. 

He got a text from Mary as they were taking him back to see Sherlock. _I'm sorry. I love you._ He deleted it and turned off his phone.

John's vigil was a solitary one this time. Mycroft left shortly after Sherlock was moved back to his private room. He had asked for a few minutes alone with his brother first, and John waited in the hall. He watched them through the window, though, and Sherlock seemed to be speaking as well as listening to whatever Mycroft found important enough to justify taxing his meager resources. 

When Mycroft left, he stopped briefly to speak with John. "I won't be able to return for several days. Call immediately if he needs me." He walked away without waiting for a response.

* * * * *

Mycroft wasted no time getting in touch with Mary Watson. He called her from the car before it pulled away from the hospital, and she picked up on the first ring. He would come to her home to discuss their current situation. He was intentionally giving her home turf advantage. She was already backed into a dangerous corner, and he had no desire to push her any further.

She opened the front door when he pulled up in front of the house. When he walked inside, she was standing across the room. 

"How is Sherlock?" She was apprehensive, but doing her best to hide it.

Mycroft glanced around the room. "Can we sit?"

"How is he?" 

Mycroft walked to the nearest armchair and sat down. "His surgeon is concerned that he may not have the strength to deal with this latest blow. However, as I just told Sherlock myself, this was his own doing. If you were worried, I am not holding you responsible for his current condition." A necessary lie.

"He's out of surgery?"

"I wouldn't be here otherwise."

She moved to the chair facing him and sat down. "How's John?"

"I'm sure you can imagine how John is." He let that sink in. "Do you know what Sherlock was concerned about when we spoke an hour ago? Your welfare. He wanted me to promise not to hold this against you. Any of it." He smiled. "Apparently, we have no cause to be concerned with your being able to regain his trust. You already have it."

"He said that tonight," she said slowly, "but I thought it was just for John's benefit."

"Everything he does is for John's benefit. Surely you know that by now. His motives are very similar to your own. That's why he trusts you."

She studied him for a moment. "But you don't."

"If you were in my position, would you?"

She let her silence answer for her.

He nodded. "So we understand each other. I fully intend to carry out the remaining part of our arrangement with regard to Magnussen. Sherlock will convince John to reconcile with you. It will be up to you to regain John's trust. You still have his love, and his child. Those are powerful bargaining chips. You will then be able to fulfill your part of the bargain with regard to protecting Sherlock." He stood. "However, I will promise you this. If you ever threaten my brother again, there will be no corner of this planet remote enough to hide you from me. Do I make myself clear?"

She stood. "Perfectly."

"If you feel the need to contact John, I would recommend restraint. Allow him to come to you. Sherlock will be your greatest ally in this. Keep that in mind."

He left her standing in her living room. He stopped on the way to his office to meet with the surveillance team he had assigned to Mary Watson. If they allowed her out of their sight, they would answer to him. Personally. 

* * * * *

It took thirty-six hours for Sherlock's condition to show improvement. John sat with him the entire time, talking when Sherlock was able, praying when he wasn't. At one point, Sherlock was stressing himself so badly trying to convince John that Mary was not the enemy that John had finally said he agreed, just to get him to rest.

The coma that had terrified John last time was not the issue this time around. For Sherlock's sake, he almost wished it were. His dangerously low blood pressure demanded a reduction in morphine dosage, and it left him in a lot of pain. Sherlock had tried to ride it out by clutching the bedrail. John let that go on for almost a minute before he gently pried Sherlock's fingers from the rail and gave him his hand. They quickly settled into what amounted to an arm wrestling grip, and it seemed to help him. It also provided John with a moment-by-moment gauge of how much pain Sherlock was suffering. By the time his condition permitted a return to adequate pain relief, Sherlock and John were both exhausted.

The days became routine, and certain points were agreed to without the need for discussion. The hospital staff placed a second bed in Sherlock's room, and John all but moved in. At first, he just recycled the clothes Mary had brought for him during Sherlock's first hospitalization. Mrs. Hudson took them home and brought them back next day, laundered and ready. He would eventually have to replace what he'd left behind with Mary. There was no question of going back to get his belongings, or of allowing Mary to come bring them to him. Sherlock suggested that once, and the look John had given him put an end to the topic. For nearly an entire afternoon.

"John, you need to keep the lines of communication open, for your child, if nothing else. It's never wise to cut off all options."

That immediately brought to mind the moment when Sherlock had seemingly cut off all options for all time. "It's not like I'm throwing myself off a building though, is it? Mary knows I'm still alive." It was cheap shot that he regretted the instant he saw it land. "Sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Yes, you did. And you're right. I know what a mistake you're making because I have empirical proof." He twitched the corner of his mouth in an almost-smile. "You may not believe she saved my life, but you know that she saved yours, and so do I. She needs to believe that there's still a chance." He went silent until John made eye contact, then held it for a long moment. "Please, John. Do it for me."

He wrote a letter that night, after Sherlock was asleep. There was a pad of hospital stationery in the bedside table, and a ball point pen. He wrote a half dozen drafts before he settled on the final version. 

_Mary,_

_Sherlock is going to recover. I know I don't have to tell you what that means to me, or what it would have meant if he hadn't. I let myself get so wrapped up in what was happening between you and me that I ignored what was happening to him. He could have died right there in the flat. I think I've been making the same mistake by not letting you know what's going on, so I'm fixing that now._

_I don't know what's next. I'm trying to make sense of it all, but it's not going to be easy. It's going to take time, and I need you to give me that. Please don't call me, or text me, or contact me in any way unless it's a matter of life or death. That is how critical it is for me to have the distance it's going to take to work through it all. I hope you see that as a positive sign. I'm thinking about us and the baby. I haven't given up, and I don't want you to give up._

_It would be so much easier if I didn't love you._

_I will be moving back to Baker Street when Sherlock is discharged. I've resigned my job at the clinic so I can take care of him. He's going to need someone to do that, and I'm the only one he'll listen to, as much as he does. I need to be there. I think you understand. I hope you do._

_Take care of yourself, and take care of the baby. I promise that I will get in touch as soon as I can._

_John_

It was what she needed to hear, and what Sherlock wanted to believe. Whether it would turn out to be true was still very much in question. He showed the letter to Sherlock the next morning before he sent it. John thought it would please him to have gotten his way, but it didn't seem to have that effect.

"That's good, John. Hope is important." He handed the letter back to John, and then spent the rest of the day until the dinner tray was delivered pretending to be asleep. It didn't fool John, but he didn't push. He was familiar with the mixed blessing of getting what you thought you wanted.

They watched telly for a few hours, and Sherlock still seemed subdued. John asked once if he felt alright, and got a somewhat clipped response. When he tried to feel Sherlock's forehead, he got an arched eyebrow and a light slap on the hand. His eyes looked fine, and the monitor readings were acceptable, so John let it drop. Sherlock finally drifted off about midnight.

A sound woke John at two in the morning, and he got out of bed to check on Sherlock. He seemed to be sleeping, but his face was damp with perspiration. John touched his forehead. "Shit." He looked at the monitor readout. Temp thirty-eight. "Shit."

Sherlock opened his eyes. "I heard you the first time." He coughed. "Fever. I noticed." He reached up and wiped the moisture from his upper lip with his fingertips, then rubbed his thumb over them, inspecting the dampness like evidence at a crime scene. 

John flipped on the lights and started untying Sherlock's gown to get a look at the wound site. Sherlock blocked him. "That's not where the infection is." He reached for the dressing over where the original central line had been on the left side of his neck. "This has been bothering me. Couldn't get a look at it." 

"Wait, let me." John said through clenched teeth. "Why didn't you say something?" He pulled the dressing back gently, and then closed his eyes in frustration at the inflamed flesh. 

"It was just a little tender." 

It seemed pointless to remind him that the removal of a central line is normally done with sterile gloves, and with a lot more care than he'd apparently given it during his daring escape from the hospital. 

Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet while the on-call doctor checked him over and ordered a broad spectrum antibiotic. When the new med was added to the collection above his bed, he leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. 

John sat in the chair he had spent so much time in during the previous crisis, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

"I'm sorry, John."

John looked up. Sherlock's eyes were still closed. "Don't be a prat. It's not your fault."

Sherlock opened his eyes. "You look worse than I do."

John managed a chuckle. "Thanks."

"I'm serious. You need to go home. I'm fine."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You're not exactly fine, and I'm not going home until you can come with me."

"You know what I mean. Go home to Mary. She needs you. You need her."

"You are relentless." John tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

"Only when I'm right."

"You're never wrong, remember?" John sat forward and looked at him. "And you can barely keep your eyes open. Go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled. "Don't think I'm too feverish to remember you said that."

Neither of them remembered it in the morning, because two hours later, Sherlock's temperature shot up to 40, and he was wrapped in cooling blankets to get it down. They fought the fever for 12 hours before the meds took hold and started to knock the infection back. Sherlock was miserable, shivering with cold and burning up at the same time. Before the fever finally broke, he was delirious, talking to Mary and John back at 221B. He was out of his mind with fever, and still pleading with John to trust her. John still didn't understand it, but he now knew it hadn't been an act for his benefit. Sherlock believed her.

The central line infection was the first setback. 

Pneumonia followed, due in part to the shallow breathing pattern he'd adopted because it hurt to take normal breaths. Coughing to clear the infection was a necessary torture, and John dreaded it almost as much as Sherlock did. It hurt to watch. It was ghastly to endure. 

Finally, a staph infection and another raging fever that held stubbornly at 40.5 for two days nearly finished what Mary had started. By the time he was discharged in early September, Sherlock was bored out of his mind but too weak to do anything about it.

John was ten pounds lighter and felt ten years older the morning he wheeled Sherlock out of the hospital and helped him into a taxi for the ride home to 221B. Helping him up the stairs to their flat was exhausting and frustrating. Sherlock was unreasonably surprised to find how weak he truly was, and the revelation made him sullen and snappish for a couple of hours. John understood, and let him work it out.

"It's been two months, Sherlock. Don't give yourself such a hard time."

Sherlock's campaign to get him to reconcile with Mary began almost from the first day home. He was infuriatingly persistent. 

"I'll be fine on my own, John. I can get around perfectly well as long as I don't try to run, and there's isn't anything in this flat that's likely to make me chase it." He was sitting in his chair, having moved gingerly from the position John had left him in on the sofa, just to prove that he could. 

John chose not to point out the perspiration the activity had put on his upper lip and forehead. "The only reason you're not still in hospital is that you have a full-time resident physician. If you're that eager to go back, just let me know. I'll have the flat to myself."

Sherlock huffed at that, then tried unsuccessfully to hide the wince. He had weaned himself off the morphine while still in hospital, and the non-opioid substitute was barely up to the task.

"I'll make you some tea. It's about time for your next dose."

He huffed again, but with noticeably less energy. "May as well drop them down the drain."

"We could try that. After you see what it feels like without them, you might have a bit more respect."

They developed a routine after a few days. Sherlock needed help with anything that would put stress on his chest or abdomen, and his balance was iffy. It was surprisingly easy to get food into him. He didn't tuck in like a hungry man, but he did eat. It was a deliberate sort of intake, like refueling an engine. He didn't seem to care what he was fed. He just put it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed until the plate was empty. 

John made sure he took his meds, and used every trick he'd learned over the years to keep him distracted and out of trouble. Mrs. Hudson did the shopping, and fussed over them at every opportunity, but there was a shadow over it. She had witnessed the destruction of John's life, after all, and he sometimes saw her looking at him with sympathy that turned instantly to a bright smile when she realized he'd caught her. 

By the end of the second week, Sherlock was moving around the flat steadily enough so that John stopped hovering nearby, waiting to catch him.

Sherlock never seemed to miss an opportunity to mention Mary, and it began to wear on John's nerves. 

"But you said you believed me." He followed John out to the kitchen where he'd gone in a futile attempt to discourage the current discussion. "She is not the enemy, John. Don't let Magnussen win."

John put down the tea kettle and rested both hands on the counter for a moment before he turned around. Sherlock was standing in the kitchen doorway, not leaning on anything, hands on his hips. He suddenly looked more like himself than he had in months. It completely washed the anger out of John, and made him smile.

Sherlock's determined expression slipped. "I didn't actually intend that to be funny."

John dropped his gaze to the floor and shook his head before he looked back up at Sherlock. "You just looked so... normal, all at once." He sighed. "I know what you're saying, but you have to let me work this out on my own. It doesn't matter how many times a day you say it. It has to be my decision." He turned back to the kettle.

To John's surprise, Sherlock let it drop, and didn't mention Mary's name for the rest of that day. Or the next. At first, it was a relief. As time passed, the topic became conspicuous by its absence. After nearly a week of telling himself that Sherlock was just using reverse psychology, he threw in the towel.

Sherlock was at the kitchen table peering into his microscope. He had resumed this activity just that morning, and it was an excellent indication that his pain was no longer an issue. That posture would have been impossible for him to maintain for long just a week ago.

John leaned against the counter and folded his arms. "Ok, you win."

"Win what?" He didn't take his eyes from the microscope.

"I'm ready to listen. Tell me why you're in such a hurry to get rid of me."

Sherlock sat back in the chair and looked up at him. "I'm not in a hurry to get rid of you." He took a deep breath without a trace of a wince. "Have you talked to Mary at all?"

John looked down at the floor.

"I thought not. I have."

That made him look up. "When?"

"Four times since we've been home. Once in the hospital. She came to see me the first day, but I..." He looked away for a beat. "I don't remember much about that."

"What did she say to you?" John was suddenly angry without being sure of his target. 

"She never meant to hurt you, John. None of this was planned."

"She shot you." He had a target now. A clear one.

"She didn't mean to kill me. It was a carefully aimed--"

"Stop saying that!" He ducked his head and took a long breath. Then he looked at Sherlock and enunciated very carefully, keeping the emotion out of his voice. "She didn't shoot you in the leg, Sherlock. She missed your heart by a centimeter. You died before surgery, did you know that? The doctors had given up on you, and then your heart just started up again on its own." He puffed out a breath. "She either meant to kill you, or she didn't care. The outcome was the same."

Sherlock really looked at him then, deduction mode at full power. John lifted his chin and let him. 

After a moment, Sherlock nodded to himself. "Have you asked yourself why she would want me dead? If that was her intention, she would have had a motive. What was it?"

John had asked himself that question many times. "To stop you from telling me that she was a fraud."

"But she knew I wouldn't. I offered to help her, in fact, with whatever Magnussen had on her. She could have left the way she came, and you would never have known she'd been there. She knew Magnussen wouldn't tell you because it would cost him his leverage. Absence of motive supports her statement that it was an accident." 

John looked at the ceiling. "I don't understand any of this, but you defending her is..." He shook his head. "Nothing I thought I knew about her is true. She completely fooled me. And you, apparently. How is that even possible?"

"But she _didn't_ fool me. I saw the person she really is, and so did you. Trust you instincts, John. You were right."

"The person I thought she was would not have tried to kill you."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, looking past him for a moment. "She was backed into a corner, and she let her reflexes take over. It was an anomaly. It's a mistake to let a single piece of data invalidate everything else you know."

"It's not a bloody experiment that went wrong, for Christ's sake!" He ducked his head to get his voice and his breathing under control. Shouting was pointless. "Sherlock, if you had died, I would never have known that she killed you." He looked up. "Do you have any idea how that feels?"

"But I didn't die. It makes no sense to punish her for what might have happened." He sighed in frustration. "John, you gave me the chance to apologize, and I don't see that her mistakes are any greater than mine. Everything she's done was to protect your marriage. She didn't set out to be a killer. She chose a profession that she thought would allow her to make a difference in the world. She fell for the recruiting poster propaganda, and she tried for too long to make it work. When she finally accepted that she'd been fooled, it was almost too late to quit, but she managed to get away at the risk of her own life. She became the person she was meant to be. The person you fell in love with. Magnussen was threatening her with exposure, and she made some mistakes in trying to protect herself and you."

John clenched his jaw and swallowed to dissipate the adrenaline. "There's nothing she could say that would undo any of it. It's too late for explanations." It had sounded like righteous indignation in his head. Saying it out loud smacked more of wounded pride.

"Mistakes can't be undone, John. That's why they require forgiveness." 

John took a breath and puffed his cheeks blowing it out. "I'm not ready to talk to her. I'm not sure I ever will be. I'm asking you to stop this. Please. If you want to keep talking to her, that's your business, but do me the courtesy of keeping it to yourself."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head in a way John recognized. He wasn't happy about it, but he was going to give in. "I won't bring it up again." He walked past John and went down the hall. A moment later, John heard the bedroom door close.

The next afternoon, John was coming back from a trip to Tesco, plastic shopping bags in both hands, when he saw Mycroft Holmes step out of Speedy's. John stopped a few yards away from him. Mycroft stood looking at him for a moment. "John, my car is around the corner. I wonder if you wouldn't mind joining me for a few minutes."

John's shoulder sagged, but he nodded. The man never seemed to tire of snatching him off the street for these clandestine chats. "Fine."

John followed him to the car, climbed in after him, and placed the bags on the floor. He sighed. "What's on your mind, Mycroft? I have frozen stuff that's going to thaw. That gives us about ten minutes." He looked at his watch for emphasis.

Mycroft came directly to the point. "Sherlock is correct. You have to reconcile with your wife."

It was all he could do to keep from hurling himself at the man and throttling him where he sat. Instead, he took a deep breath and smiled. "I won't bother to ask how you know what Sherlock has been saying, but this is so clearly not your business that I don't even know where to begin."

Mycroft's smile was a false as John's. "I'm afraid it is very much my business, John. Sherlock's reasons for wanting you to go back with your wife are purely altruistic. Mine are practical. By continuing to refuse contact with your wife, you are leaving her no reason to hope. At the same time, you are living with someone she has every reason to see as the cause for her life coming undone. I am asking you to imagine for a moment what desperate measure you might be forcing her to consider."

John was speechless for a moment. "Even if I thought there was the slightest chance that she blames Sherlock for any of this, she's not going to come after him."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? I believe she has already demonstrated her willingness to do whatever she deems necessary to protect herself and you. How can you assume she won't do so again?"

John's fury made him calm. "You're insane. This is what Sherlock has been trying to tell me all along, isn't it? He was in so much pain he could barely talk for those first few days, but even then he wouldn't stop trying to get me to forgive her. He was afraid for her, wasn't he?" He tightened his lips into a smile. "He was right all along."

Mycroft remained impassive. "Reconcile with your wife. Make her believe you've forgiven her, and she will cease to be a threat. I will remove the threat Magnussen poses to her freedom, and you can resume your life. Sherlock will be safe. Go home, John."

"I am home."

"But that's no longer true, is it? Do you truly intend to put your friend's life in jeopardy just to prove a point?"

The urge to wipe the smug smile off Mycroft's face was nearly overwhelming. "You will never get it, will you? This is why your brother does the crazy shit he does. You've smothered him his entire life, and now you're trying to dictate my life as well. What do you think he'll do when I tell him about this? Are you ready to have him cut you out of his life completely, because that's going to be his reaction, if he doesn't try to kill you first."

Mycroft's eyes turned dangerous. "I can't stop you from telling him about our talk, John. But I promise you this. If you do tell him, you will virtually guarantee the worst possible outcome for all of us. You're right. He will disown me, and all of the protection that's currently keeping him alive. Mary will kill him, or one of his enemies will kill him. Or he'll persist in trying to help you, and it will cost him his life. I'm asking you to consider the consequences, and make a choice for Sherlock's benefit as selfless as the ones he keeps making for yours."

John picked up the bags from the floor. "I won't do anything until I've had time to think it over. But I'll make you a promise, too. If anything happens to my wife, I will come after you, and not even Sherlock will be able to stop me." He got out before Mycroft could respond, then stood on the kerb and waited until the car pulled away.

* * * * *

Sherlock woke up on the sofa to find the flat silent and dark. 

He made his way to the kitchen by the light coming through the windows from the street, flipped the switch for the overhead fluorescents and stopped. The groceries John had gone out to get hours ago were on the table. "John?" 

He walked through the flat turning on lights. He walked to the bottom of the steps and called up the stairs. "John, are you up there?"

He returned to the kitchen and poked through the bags. The milk was warm. And then he saw John's phone on the counter, and the note beneath it. 

_Sherlock, I'm going out for a while. Just need some air. Don't worry. J_

He had pressed John too hard. Mary had warned him not to, and had predicted that it would drive John away from him without sending him to her. She was afraid they would both lose him. But he'd thought he knew John better than anyone, including Mary. It was beginning to dawn on him that there may be no limit to how often he could be so disastrously wrong.

When she had sent him the first text asking him to call her, he had sent a text back telling her he needed to think about it. She had replied that she understood, but he needed to know that time was a factor. He'd taken it as a thinly veiled threat, and called her without a second's hesitation.

It wasn't a threat. Nor, she insisted, had her visit to him on that first night been anything but an apology. He had let her explain, comparing what she claimed to have said to his memory, and it made sense. Even knowing how skilled she was at deception, he listened to her during that call, and the next a few days later. They had to time their contacts with John's absence. Sherlock called her when he knew he would have an hour. He listened, and he asked questions, and he believed her. 

She had told him during the last call that his brother had promised to stop Magnussen, but only if she would work for Mycroft. He had already heard the same thing from Mycroft. His brother had been so furious about his escape from the hospital and for his having told John the truth, that he'd never returned to the hospital. Somehow, knowing that Mycroft had tried to manipulate her like that made her a kindred spirit. Sherlock was familiar with Mycroft's intimidation, and it put him firmly on her side in a way that nothing else could have done.

He tried to think what he might have said or done before John left for the store that could account for his running off now. The note said not to worry, but that only told him that there was something to worry about. So, of course, that's exactly what he did.

Two hours later, John walked through the door to the kitchen and started putting away groceries as if he'd just taken a short break.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Have a nice walk?"

John glanced back at him. "Cold. Want some dinner?" 

Sherlock got up and came out to the kitchen. "Did something happen?"

"Nope. Everything's great." He stacked a bagful of tinned vegetables in the cabinet and shut the door, then gathered up the empty bags and stuffed them in the bin. "How about scrambled eggs? I'm starved." He smiled.

Sherlock put his hands on his hips. "You're not going to tell me what made you drop everything and run out of the flat four hours ago."

John turned to the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs. "Eggs sound great to me. Sure you don't want some?" He shrugged out of his jacket and turned on the taps to wash his hands.

"John, what happened?"

John turned off the taps. "I needed some air. I got a little stir crazy. It's not a big deal unless you make it into one." 

Sherlock studied John's expression, replayed his voice, measured his words. "I was worried."

Their eyes locked for a long moment. John blinked first. "I'm sorry I worried you. Forget it, okay? Next time, I'll drag you along. You need the exercise." He pulled out a pan and resumed his dinner preparations.

Sherlock watched him for a moment. "Eggs sound fine."

John smiled.

 

* * * * * 

Mycroft returned to his desk at the Diogenes Club and turned on his laptop. When he clicked on the surveillance update, he was surprised to note that John Watson was not at 221B. He had left the flat only twenty minutes after he and Mycroft had parted company, and had been in motion ever since. Walking it off, Mycroft supposed. His mobile was still at 221B, which would explain Sherlock's agitation. The black and white image from the only camera he'd ever successfully hidden for more than a few hours showed his brother alternating between standing at the window, and pacing in a tight circle in the middle of the living room. The camera was tucked into the shadows at the top of the right hand bookcase flanking the fireplace. Its wide angle gave a full view of the living room and a sliver of the kitchen. That this one had managed to escape detection, Mycroft attributed to his brother's still fragile health. That knowledge erased any sense of satisfaction that the camera was still in place. 

Mycroft scrolled back through the images. There was John entering the flat, viewed from the front of the building. Switching to the inside camera, he didn't pick John up again until he came to the doorway and looked over at the sofa where Sherlock was sleeping. He stood for a moment, then turned and moved out of camera range. Two minutes later, the exterior view showed him leaving the flat and turning to his right. He switched back to the interior footage and fast-forwarded through Sherlock waking, realizing he was alone, and hunting for his friend. The images caught up to the live feed, and Sherlock was standing still in the center of the room, fingers steepled under his chin.

"Sit down, Sherlock," Mycroft uselessly told the image. "You're wearing yourself out."

But Sherlock wearing himself out over John Watson was hardly new. Risking his life for him wasn't new, either. The most recent example had been to show John the truth about his wife, something he could have told him from the sane safety of his hospital bed, but chose to demonstrate because he couldn't bear to say the words. Mycroft was furious with his brother, but he was just as angry with himself. He should have anticipated that Sherlock would do exactly what he did.

His frustration at Sherlock's unutterable stupidity had made him lash out at him when he'd been barely an hour out of that second surgery. It had also kept him away from the hospital, angry enough to push aside his fear. Sherlock had been just as close to death the second time as he'd been the first, and already weakened by the first episode. Mycroft knew how fortunate he was that Sherlock had not died while he'd been off nursing his temper, but he simply could not understand how Sherlock could have risked his life so needlessly. Nothing angered him like waste, and this would have been the greatest waste he could imagine.

Mycroft knew he was risking his own relationship with John. Their confrontation this afternoon had been the result of a carefully considered set of data, but dealing with human emotions was still a roll of the dice, and there was little he hated as much as leaving anything to chance. John needed to side with Mary, and Mycroft had offered himself as a very plausible threat to force John's hand. And it had worked, if only for that moment. John leaving the flat without talking to Sherlock, and leaving his phone behind, were indicative of the emotional impact, but did not yet point to an outcome.

John Watson had accused Mycroft of being insane, and there may be some truth to that. Mycroft had offered salvation to the woman who had very nearly killed his brother. He would have kept his word. He'd been in the process of it, in fact, when Sherlock had blown it all to hell.

In defiance of all logic, Mycroft was still trying to put their lives back the way they'd been before Magnussen came on the scene. Magnussen was the only reason Mary Watson's true colors had come out. Sherlock was the only reason she had not succeeded in stopping him. He was also the reason Mycroft's plan had failed. Mycroft felt his anger rise quickly once more.

And then he looked at the live feed and saw Sherlock standing at the window, looking down at the street. Suddenly, he leaned into the glass and bowed his head, and Mycroft was on his feet in spite of the fact that he could do nothing to help. But Sherlock wasn't collapsing. He looked up, almost straight at the camera, and the expression on his face was so filled with relief that Mycroft knew what had just happened. John must be coming up to the door.

A moment later, Sherlock turned and sat down in his chair, eyes on the door. Seconds later, it opened, and John Watson came home.

 

* * * * *

End of Chapter 9


	10. Everything Matters

* * * * *  
Mary had not heard from Sherlock in three weeks, so seeing a picture of him in the morning paper came as quite a surprise. It was a large color photo, centered on Sherlock as he talked with John and DI Lestrade at what the caption described as the scene of a residential burglary in Brixton. The article said that NSY was diligently working on a series of burglaries that had taken place over the previous two months which were linked by a consistent lack of any evidence as to how the burglar had gotten in. The only clue left behind was the absence of the stolen items. The article ended with a quote from DI Lestrade that a new lead had been developed, and he expected to have an update within 48 hours.

Mary smiled. That meant Sherlock had solved it, and Lestrade would probably have the suspect in custody before the next morning paper came out, if he hadn't already picked him up by the time this one was printed. 

So, Sherlock was well enough to go out on cases again. That had to make them both very happy. This image was the first time she had seen either of them since Sherlock collapsed at Baker Street, and she was relieved but surprised at how well he looked. The photographer had captured him in mid gesture, directing Lestrade's attention toward something on the wall behind them. Lestrade was looking at the spot Sherlock indicated. John was at Sherlock's side, and his focus was on Sherlock, as always. She could read his body language so easily. He stood almost at attention, hands clasped behind his back, eyes on Sherlock's face. She recognized the expression. She'd become familiar with it long before she met the man who inspired it: on the cusp of a smile, brow slightly furrowed, eyes lit with admiration and wonder. John had worn it whenever he talked to her about Sherlock, back when they'd both still believed he was dead. John's devotion to Sherlock was obvious to anyone who spent even a short time with the two of them. Even casual acquaintances seemed to leap to the simplistic conclusion that the two men must be lovers, a reaction that still confounded John. She smiled. If only life were that black and white. She could have dealt with a romantic rival. But this...

She had sent Sherlock a text two nights ago. Normally, he responded within an hour, but she had heard nothing at all. It had worried her, and she had nearly contacted John just to make sure Sherlock was all right. Somehow, she hadn't expected him to be quite as fit as he clearly was. His color was good in the photo, and he seemed to have put on some weight, just going by the angles of his face having softened a bit. John looked good, too, but his expression was what stopped her. It told her that he had fully engaged back into his old life with Sherlock. She wondered if Sherlock's sudden silence meant that he saw it, too. 

It was no secret to her that Sherlock wanted John to stay with him, and that his insistence that John reconcile with her had been because he believed that was what John truly wanted and needed. But if that belief had changed, and if he now believed that John needed him instead, it would explain his silence. And John's. 

It was always going to come down to John's decision, and it seemed that he had made it. She and Sherlock had never asked him to choose between them, not even in the beginning, but she knew that she had been competing with Sherlock's memory from the day she and John met. It was human nature to idealize loved ones who had died. Sherlock had grown to mythic proportions in John's memory, and she had accepted that. Then he had resurrected himself in such a bafflingly clumsy way that he had managed to tarnish his own halo, for a time. Until she had all but deified him with her attack, and her betrayal. 

She knew Sherlock had not sabotaged her. He didn't need to. She'd done that quite handily on her own. 

But Sherlock was overlooking something very important. He knew that she was still under threat from both Magnussen and Mycroft. Even if she were noble enough to back away, Mycroft would not allow it. She had not heard from Magnussen since that night, but she thought it was simply because he hadn't run across a need for her yet. It was possible that Mycroft had contacted Magnussen to activate his plan to make himself her only master. He'd told her that he fully intended to carry through with that part of their arrangement. Having one master instead of two was hardly comforting, particularly given what Mycroft would be like to serve. John had told her that he believed most of Sherlock's risky behavior was driven by his frustration over Mycroft's domineering attitude. She was not eager to find herself in a similar position.

But none of that mattered, not if John was lost to her. She refused to use the baby as a bargaining chip, in spite of Mycroft Holmes' vile recommendation. John had to make this decision with the both her and the baby in mind. And he needed to tell her where she stood. Now. She picked up her phone and sent another text. 

_S, please respond, or I will come to the flat and ask him myself. M._

 

* * * * *

Lestrade returned just after noon with Sergeant Donovan and their burglary suspect, Roland Bessimer. As Sherlock had predicted, Bessimer was an electronics consultant for the security firms hired by the victims or their building owners, with no criminal record, and feeling the strain of extraordinary expenses that had come up two months ago. Bessimer's twelve year old son had been diagnosed with cancer nine weeks ago, and the stolen goods were being sold to help meet the costs of treatment. Everything that had been stolen had also been sold immediately, and at prices below what an experienced thief would accept. Jewelry, paintings, and high end electronic items. The revenue barely made a dent in the expenses, but Lestrade could understand the desperation, if not excuse it. Bessimer had still been in possession of the jewelry taken in the last burglary, and his sick son was on the sofa in his living room. There was no satisfaction at all in this one.

Donovan seemed subdued, too. She'd kept glancing at him as they were driving back with their prisoner. After they had turned him over for processing, they walked back to their desks. At least, Greg did. Sally followed him into his office and closed the door behind her, then leaned against it.

"What's on your mind, Donovan?"

She seemed to be struggling with how to put whatever it was. She took a breath, and paused again. "Do you know who shot Sherlock Holmes?"

It wasn't at all what he'd been expecting, and it took him a moment to catch up. He frowned. "You know we don't have any suspects. Where's this coming from?"

She walked to the chair in front of his desk and sat down. "I think John has moved back in with him."

He shook his head, not denying what she said, just not able to see where this was headed. "'Course he did. When Sherlock was discharged, he needed help."

"Which he doesn't need now, obviously. Why is John still there?"

Greg sat back. "What makes you think he's still at Baker Street?"

She huffed. "They came in a cab together, and they left the same way." She held up a hand to ward off the comment he had started to offer. "No, there's more than that. I was talking to John when you and Sherlock were flitting around the scene. I asked him how Mary was, and it was like I flipped the psycho switch. For a second there, I thought he was going to hit me. It was a perfectly innocent, normal question to ask of a man who's got a pregnant wife at home, and he looked at me like I just took a shot at Sherlock myself. A few seconds later, he was back to normal. He smiled and said she was fine. And he immediately walked away before I could ask anything else." She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "I find that suspicious as hell."

"When did you stop calling him 'Freak'?"

That startled her. She uncrossed her arms and looked away. "It was getting to be an old joke, and I... I don't actually think he's a freak anymore." 

Greg nodded. "Good. You might find it a lot easier to deal with him now. And no, I don't know who shot him. He doesn't remember, and there are no leads. What does that have to do with where John may or may not be living?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You don't find it strange that John hasn't been banging your door down demanding that you find the shooter? Or Sherlock's brother, for that matter? I think it's damned odd."

Greg's honest opinion was that both John and Mycroft knew who had shot Sherlock, and that they also knew he was no longer a threat. How that was accomplished, Greg chose not to consider too closely, but every unidentified body that washed up in the Thames made him wonder if that might be the one. "I would say that with a brother in MI-6, the chances of Sherlock's shooter going unpunished would be pretty much nonexistent. That's totally off the record, by the way. We worked the calls when Magnussen put up that reward for information, and nothing came of it. You need to let it drop."

She looked unconvinced. "You don't think it's odd that John left his wife to move in with Sherlock?"

"Oh for God's sake, he didn't leave his wife for Sherlock. If he's really still at Baker Street, there's a good reason. One that's not my business, or yours." 

She crossed her arms again. "What if Mary is the one who shot him?"

He stared at her. "What?"

"Just hear me out. It's obvious to everyone but you, apparently, that there's a lot more to John Watson and Sherlock Holmes than being best mates. Mary met John when they both thought Sherlock was dead. And then he pops up again. She's certainly heard the rumors that they were a couple. Maybe she's even seen it herself. There might be a lot of people with plausible motives for killing Sherlock Holmes, but there's no fury like a woman fighting for the man she loves."

It would explain why John was still living with Sherlock, a fact that Greg had been aware of, but had kept to himself. He had just assumed that Sherlock still needed him. Maybe PTSD? Wouldn't be hard to understand, after all. And John would have practical experience to help him. It would be nearly impossible to convince him to go to a professional. To think that it might have been Mary who shot Sherlock... no. "If it was anybody but Mary and John, I might give it some thought. But you've got this wrong. You need to keep this whole theory to yourself. If you really want to see John go psycho on you, just mention that you think his wife is a killer." The idea was so ridiculous that it made him smile.

Sally's expression hardened. "I'm happy to be so entertaining."

He sobered. "I don't think it's funny. It's just not possible for Mary to have been the one who shot him. Have you met her? She's no killer, Donovan. And rein in your imagination about John and Sherlock, too. Talk about old jokes." He snorted.

She stood up and went stiffly to the door. "Thanks for your time." She jerked the door open and left it standing ajar as she walked to her desk and dropped into the chair. 

Greg knew that posture. She was angry. He hadn't meant to make light of her theory, but it was beyond even qualifying as a stretch. He was surprised that she had even tried to talk to John, knowing how he felt about her and Anderson. It was no wonder he'd been so touchy. She would realize that, after she cooled down. 

* * * * *

Sherlock had removed his coat and his jacket and donned his blue dressing gown as soon as they walked into the flat. Case closed. Now began the wait for the next one. He stretched out on the sofa, and started scrolling through text messages on his phone. 

John hung his own jacket on the back of a kitchen chair. "I'm making tea," he called out to Sherlock as he turned on the kettle. 

A moment later, he poked his head into the living room to see why he hadn't received a reply. Sherlock was staring at his phone. "Sherlock, do you want any tea?"

"Yes," Sherlock said absently, not looking at him. "Fine."

John stared at him for a moment, frowning. "You okay?"

"I'll be out in a moment." Still staring at the phone.

John gave up and returned to his task. A moment later, Sherlock came into the kitchen. John heard him remove the jacket from the chair and put it on the peg next to the door, then pull out the chair and sit down. When he turned around, he noticed that Sherlock had removed his dressing gown. He was sitting at the table in his white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows like a man about to take on a physical task. 

Sherlock looked up at him. "John, why are you still here?"

John didn't try to hide his bemusement. "Well, where did that come from?"

Sherlock frowned. "You haven't even mentioned Mary's name in two weeks. I've been fine for more than a month now. Why haven't you made arrangements to go home?"

John leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. "It was never me who mentioned her."

That seemed to surprise him. John could see him searching his memory to check the validity of that statement. John didn't wait for him to finish mentally replaying the past three months. "Sherlock, I'm here because I'm still trying to decide whether I can go back to my wife. I thought that was our agreement. What's the sudden rush?"

"I would imagine that Mary is becoming concerned about your silence. I could send her a message. Or you could. Just to ease her mind." He was looking at the wall behind John.

"Did she give you some sort of deadline? Is that what started this?"

Sherlock met his gaze. "There's a limit to how long this arrangement can continue before you're forced to make a decision."

He crossed his arms. "Forced? By what?"

Sherlock gave him a long look. "I believe there's an obvious answer to that question. You have a pregnant wife who is due in about six weeks. It's time to go home, John."

"I am home." 

Sherlock's eyes flashed pain for just an instant. "Baker Street is an address. Your home is with Mary. Are you planning to just show up for the delivery and expect her to hand over the baby?"

He clenched his jaw until it hurt. "I'm very much aware of the deadline, and so is she. She's counting on it, in fact."

"How do you know what she thinks? When was the last time you talked to her?"

John leveled his gaze. "You remember. It was in this flat, just before the medics spent twenty minutes trying to get your heart working again."

Sherlock started to say something, then stopped. He took a deep breath. "You have to make a decision. Put all that aside, and look at what matters. You're running out of time."

John dropped his hands to his side, flexing his fingers in frustration. "Everything matters. And we can't all disappear into our mind palace for an hour and come up with the perfect solution to every problem. It takes the rest of us a lot of time and effort. I have been thinking about it, Sherlock. A lot. Your boot on my backside isn't going to make the process move any faster. In fact, I've made more progress over the past two weeks precisely because you stopped bringing it up. What changed?"

"My mind palace makes mistakes, too." Sherlock said it so quietly that he might have been talking to himself.

It was a comment that begged for a smart ass response, except for the way it had been delivered. "What were you wrong about?"

He shook his head, looking off to John's right. "It's a long list." A moment passed, and he looked directly at John. "Mary is going to run out of patience unless one of us gets in touch with her. I think that person should be you, but I will convey a message if you prefer. Let me know." He got up from the table, and went back to the living room.

The kettle was boiling, and John turned it off. What he really wanted was a tall glass of Scotch. He walked out to the living room, and stopped. Sherlock was sitting at the desk with his laptop open in front of him, but he wasn't looking at it. His elbows rested on the desk and his hands were in the familiar prayer position, fingers pressed to his lips. He was staring straight ahead. "Sherlock?" He didn't expect an answer, and he didn't get one. He glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. He walked over to the desk, just to verify his observation. Waved a hand in front of Sherlock, and nodded. He would check back in a couple of hours.

Back in the kitchen, he finished the tea, and put one in front of Sherlock out of habit. It would be cold long before he came back with whatever he was working on in his 'not infallible' mind palace.

That admission had been a surprise. It was true, of course, but John wondered what had made him say it. Evidence of Sherlock's fallibility was painfully clear in his refusal to see the obvious with Mary, but Sherlock never saw the flaws in the people he loved. He forgave them for failing him, even as he crucified himself for the same thing. Sherlock loved Mary, therefore she could not have meant to hurt him, or John. His faith in her seemed unshakable, and John knew making him see the truth would be difficult, if not impossible. 

The past two weeks had been so close to the life they'd had before Sherlock had disappeared for two years that John had not wanted to think beyond it. Maybe Sherlock had felt it too, and that was why he had stopped nagging him about Mary. That could be the 'mistake' his mind palace had made. Allowing himself this brief return to a life that was no longer possible. 

He had not pushed Sherlock hard enough to get him to drop the blinders and take an honest look at what he was so carefully avoiding, but that had to change. 

"If you want me to make a decision right now, you're bloody well going to listen to my side first."

There was no reaction from Sherlock, of course. John sat down in his chair to wait for his friend.

* * * * *

He had been avoiding his John room for the wrong reasons, he realized. A decision based on only the data he allowed into the equation was bound to be wrong. Everything mattered. He opened the door.

Sunlight. Faint scents of wood smoke, leather, gun oil. The waltz he had composed for their wedding, played on a cello, the arrangement more somber than his violin. John's chair. Mary sitting in it, dressed for dinner at the Landmark Hotel in those final few moments of peace before disaster joined them at the table with a fake moustache and a bottle of champagne.

"You have to let him go, Sherlock. You can't give him what he needs."

"Neither can you. Not without me. It's not a dilemma, Mary. John needs both of us. You knew that once, or claimed to."

She smiled. "So did you. But you're not sure anymore, are you? You wonder if you're a distraction. Part of the problem, not the solution."

"No."

"Yes, you do. If you had never come back, what do you think John would be doing right now? He wouldn't be torturing himself over his wife being an assassin who lied to him and nearly killed his friend because none of that would have happened. He wouldn't be struggling with this decision because it would not have been necessary. He'd be a happily married man with a wife he adores, and a baby on the way. Can you deny any of that?"

He could, actually. "What would John be doing right now if I had never left?"

"You think you have the answer to that, and you expect me to recite it for you. Well, it's not as obvious as you seem to believe, Sherlock. You think he and I would never have met. You think it's only because he was still in so much pain a year after your death that he reached out to me. You know that's not the whole truth. He may not have met me, but he would have found a woman eventually. John's not like you. He needs the comfort of a physical relationship with a woman who loves him, and he would have found that. He loves you, Sherlock, but you would never have been enough."

"I never expected him to remain single. I told Mycroft that you and John getting married was the beginning of a new chapter, not the end."

"But you didn't believe it, even then." Mary had vanished, and Mycroft was standing at the window looking back at him. "You know you will have to share John with his wife, and his child. He will no longer be able to drop everything at a moment's notice and follow you. You've been demoted, Sherlock. From first place to third. Embrace the inevitable."

Sherlock joined him at the window, toe to toe. "Is that why you want her under your control? You think if she doles out John's time to me the way you dictate, that you'll finally control me, too?"

Mycroft smiled. "You really believe that, don't you? That everything I do is somehow related to you. Does it never occur to you that my motives might occasionally involve my own welfare? Are you truly so self-involved?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "That's not a denial. It's not even an answer. You're avoiding the question, which only tells me that I'm right."

Mycroft's weary sigh was a tell. "Believe what you wish, Sherlock. That's what you do. You have never actually asked John what he wants, have you? You assume you know what's best, but at the same time, you acknowledge that you've been disastrously wrong more than once. I suggest you ask for the truth before you make another costly mistake."

Before Sherlock could respond, Mycroft turned back to the window and vanished.

"Sherlock?" John's voice coming from the door behind him. He turned. 

John was leaning against the door. "You can't keep letting him do this to you. It's time to cut the cord."

"He may be a manipulative bastard, but he does have a point. I've never asked you what you want."

John blinked in confusion. "You know what I want."

"No. I don't," Sherlock said slowly. "I'm asking you to tell me."

John smiled. "Think about what you just said. I'm an avatar. All I can say is what you expect me to say. If you truly don't know what I want, the only answer you're going to get is that I don't know either."

Sherlock shook his head. "But that's not true. Avatars in my mind palace surprise me all the time. It's why you're here. To stimulate my subconscious to give me the answer. What do you want, John?"

"I want my life back." 

Sherlock clenched his teeth. "But which life? You have to tell me, because I don't know."

John smiled. "Yes, you do." He turned and opened the door. "Time to do something about it." John left the room.

Sherlock walked to John's chair and settled into it. He would go back to the beginning. To the first day he had met John at Bart's. Replay it all, frame by frame. The answer was there. He just had to find it.

* * * * *

John gave up waiting for Sherlock to surface, and headed out to the kitchen. He was hungry, but he had more than satisfying his appetite in mind. Experience had shown that strong aromas sometimes drew Sherlock out of his mind palace. There was a pan of lasagna that Mrs. Hudson had tucked into the fridge with a note for John while they'd been out this morning. She always included a note about how to heat up the food she left for them, as if they would just sit and stare at it without instructions. He popped it into the oven and set the timer, as instructed. It took thirty minutes for the aroma to reach the living room, and another five for Sherlock to notice. 

John had picked up a book to wait for either the oven timer, or Sherlock's return from his mind palace. He was barely two pages into it when Sherlock took a deep breath, and blinked. "John?"

"Welcome back." He closed the book and put in on the table next to his chair. 

"What time is it?" He flexed his wrists and wiggled his fingers.

"About six. Dinner's almost ready."

Sherlock got up from the desk and moved to his chair facing John. "I have a question." But then he paused, squinting at some point over John's head.

John decided to wait him out. He'd spent almost four hours coming up with whatever he was about to say. Patience was called for.

Finally, Sherlock took a breath and locked eyes with John. "What do you want?"

John waited, then frowned. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"I've been telling you what you need to do, but I've never asked you what you want the final outcome to be. I thought it was time I asked."

John had been focused on the immediate present for months now. Keeping Sherlock alive, then getting him back on his feet. That mission was accomplished. Looking ahead was proving to be much harder. "That's not an easy question. I'll give it a shot, but only if you answer one for me first."

Sherlock gestured grandly. "Ask your question."

John took a deep breath. "Are you aware that this thing with Mary is the first time I've ever known you to ignore evidence? And that's not the question, by the way. It's a preamble."

"It sounds like a question."

"Why are you so hell bent on getting me to move back with Mary in spite of all the evidence against it?"

Sherlock huffed a sigh. "What evidence?"

"Seriously? Okay, let's start with the 'surgical' placement of the bullet. Remember, I was there when you fed that line to Mary, before she knew I was listening. I could read her reaction from thirty feet away, from the back, so I know you couldn't have missed it. She wasn't relieved. She didn't agree. She looked down at the floor. If it had been anybody else, you would have recognized that as a denial. But you wanted to believe it, so you did. I've never seen you like this, and I want to know why. Do you think that's what I want?"

"Do you want me to answer that?"

"I'm not finished. She brought a gun to meet with a man she knew could barely stand up. She could have outrun you, or pushed you down with one hand and stepped over you. But she brought a loaded automatic. If you hadn't put her face on the front of the building, what do you think she had planned?"

Sherlock's gaze narrowed. "You think she's lying to me."

He sat back in the chair and stared at the ceiling in exasperation. "For Christ's sake, Sherlock, she hasn't done anything but lie since I met her. When you were sitting exactly where you are right now, telling her your version of what happened, did you hear her agree with you even once? You said she called the ambulance, and I know that's not true. Mycroft sent that ambulance, and he saved your life. Mary just took credit for it."

Sherlock's hands tensed on the arms of the chair just as they had that night, but this time the pain wasn't physical. "How do you know that?"

"Mycroft told me, of course."

Sherlock barked a laugh. "And he's never been known to lie."

"Mary didn't call the ambulance, and it's easy enough to prove. Check Magnussen's phone records. You think she used his phone? There won't be a call to 999 that night. I would bet my life on it." He watched Sherlock shaking his head in a slow arc of disbelief. "You were right about one thing. She didn't want to kill you instantly. She needed you to be alive when I found you. She knew I wouldn't leave you to chase the shooter if you were still breathing, and she was right. I never gave it a thought. She left you alive to slow me down, and for no other reason." He was breathing hard, on the edge of control. 

Sherlock watched him silently for a moment. "Okay. You think my judgment is unreliable because I care about her and want to believe the best, but yours is just as colored in the opposite direction. I think we can agree that I have far less emotional investment in the relationship, and that means far less distortion in my perspective. I may not be right about everything, but the odds are in my favor"

"I didn't invent the evidence, Sherlock. And you can't continue to ignore it." 

Sherlock tipped his head and considered that. "Say you're right about her only caring that I lived long enough to let her escape. The 'surgery' theory was mine. You seem to think that not jumping on that and claiming it was true proves she's a liar, when it proves just the opposite. The same applies to her letting me think that she called the ambulance. I may be putting more faith in her than you are, but nothing you've said proves either of us right or wrong."

John had been prepared for a fight, not a draw. "Where does that leave us?"

"It leaves us exactly where we've been all along. We know that Mary left her old life behind five years before she ever met you. We know that she was there for you during a difficult time in your life that I caused, and she's been nothing but positive and supportive since I came back into your life. We know that it's hard for you to trust anyone, and the worst thing she could have done was to betray that trust. We--"

"No," John cut in, jabbing a finger in Sherlock's direction for emphasis. "The worst thing she could have done was try to kill you."

Sherlock sat back, almost lounging, fingers tapping lightly on the arms of the chair. "I didn't remember much about the shooting until recently. I remembered going to Magnussen's office, finding Janine on the floor, and going up the stairs. I remembered Mary turning around, and how I'd never been that surprised before in my life. I didn't believe she would shoot me. I actually told her she wouldn't, and then she pulled the trigger. I remember thinking she'd missed, and then I saw the blood. It didn't even hurt, at first."

John took a strained breath. "If this is supposed to make me feel forgiving, it's not working."

"I woke up one morning two weeks ago, and it was all there. Everything that happened after she shot me. The part that matters is that she was sorry, John. Before I blacked out, she said she was sorry, and she was crying. She meant it. That buried memory is why I've been so sure all along that she wasn't trying to kill me. I just didn't know it. She would rather have done almost anything else, if there had been an alternative."

John was suddenly too tired to think. He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he leaned back in his chair. "Let me cut through it all for you. I know I have to go back to her because of the baby. But no matter how right I know that is, it pisses me off because of everything else. I have to make her believe that I've forgiven her so she feels safe in staying with me, and that pisses me off even more. She's won, Sherlock. Everything that has happened, or is about to, is all part of her plan, no matter what you want to believe."

"But none of it would have happened if I'd never come back."

He couldn't argue with that. "Probably not. For now, at least. She would have killed Magnussen, and her secret would have been safe until the next person came along with a similar threat. Secrets like that don't stay secrets forever. And Sherlock?" He waited for eye contact. "Don't ever think for one second that I would have wanted that. No matter what happens, I wanted you back. You know that."

Sherlock held his gaze. "This is a hell of a price to pay for it."

He couldn't argue with that, either. "And I would do it again. All of it."

Sherlock pressed his lips tightly and nodded, then took a deep breath. "When are you going to contact her? That's actually what started this. She sent me a text that said unless she gets an answer, she's going to come here to ask you personally."

"I need a little more time. You can let her know that we'll meet here on New Year's Eve. After all this, another three weeks doesn't seem like too much to ask."

Sherlock looked at him. "You do love her. And the baby. This could still work out."

John smiled. One hurdle at a time.

The oven timer dinged. John got up and went out to the kitchen. 

* * * * *

A brief fill-in article in the Daily Mail about the still-unsolved attack on Sherlock gave Lestrade an opening to pay a visit to Baker Street. He chose the dinner hour not just because he'd probably catch Sherlock at home, but to see if John was still living there. Donovan's theory had been nagging at him. It wasn't that he believed for a moment that Mary was involved in the shooting, but if John were still living at the flat with Sherlock, it did raise a question or two.

John answered the door. "Hey, Greg. Come on up." He trotted up the stairs and turned left into the kitchen.

Sherlock got up from the table as Greg came through the door behind John. They had obviously been in the middle of eating dinner. "Lestrade. What's on your mind?"

Greg feigned surprise that was meant to fool no one. "What? I can't just drop by?" Pause. "Yeah, okay. I got a request for a follow up, so I came by to see if you've managed to remember anything about who shot you." He was looking at Sherlock when he said this, but he was watching John with his peripheral vision. The flinch was very quick, tightly controlled, and unmistakable.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a moment. "Request from whom?" 

John picked up their cups and turned to the kettle on the counter. He stayed that way, with his back to Greg, fiddling with spoons and tea boxes.

Greg looked wearily skyward. "Reporters. You know. Busy work. Daily Mail ran an article this morning. Did you see it?" 

Sherlock's chin lifted, deducing him very briefly. "Sorry, no. Still can't help you."

Not a denial, he noticed. "Okay, then. I'll tell them to piss off." He took a breath. "So, John. How's Mary doing? I remember when my wife was expecting." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Takes a saint to stay positive some days." 

John had gone completely still at the mention of his wife's name, and he didn't turn around. "She's good, Greg. Thanks for asking."

Sherlock was giving him a look he recognized too well. He was being deduced from stem to stern this time. Greg smiled in response. "We picked up the burglar this morning. Thought you'd like to know. He fit your description to the last detail. You haven't lost your touch." His smile was beginning to feel stiff.

Sherlock didn't smile back. "So why don't you seem as happy as you should be? A string of burglaries closed, and you look like somebody poisoned your dog."

Greg shrugged. "Those expenses he was stealing to cover? His kid's got cancer. It's one of those times I almost wish we hadn't figured it out."

"You mean, you wish _I_ hadn't figured it out. Sorry. You have to give me a hint next time, if you want me to play idiot."

This wasn't the direction he'd meant this to go. "You know I didn't mean it that way. It's just that sometimes justice doesn't feel very...just." He nodded at the table. "Sorry to interrupt your dinner. I'll let you get back to it. Have a good evening." 

"Yeah, you too," John called over his shoulder as Greg was heading out the door.

Sherlock's gaze had narrowed again, Greg saw from the corner of his eye. He also noticed that the kitchen door and then the living room door closed before he reached the landing.

So, clearly, John was living at Baker Street with Sherlock who, equally clearly, did not need him for his medical expertise. He was racking his brain for a reason that would explain why John would not be living with his wife that didn't involve choosing Sherlock over her. There were two, both of which conflicted with everything he thought he knew. One was that Mary had actually shot Sherlock. The other, that Sherlock's near death had made John realize that Sherlock was more important to him than his wife. His pregnant wife.

The implications, either way, were disturbing. He sincerely wished Donovan had kept her suspicions to herself.

* * * * *

Sherlock closed both doors. "We just ran out of time."

John turned from the sink and blew out a heavy breath. "Donovan."

Sherlock frowned. "What about her?"

John sat down at the table. "She asked me about Mary at the crime scene, and it caught me off guard. I didn't think it showed, but I guess she's still a very observant pain in the arse."

"She won't give up." Sherlock joined him at the table. "We can't wait until the end of the year now. I'm not sure we can wait until Christmas. The longer you stay here, the more you risk drawing Lestrade into it. He's already suspicious. He was watching you the whole time he was here."

John agreed. "We'll do it at your parents' Christmas dinner. You can invite Mary, and tell her that we'll talk then. I'll plan to go home with her from there." The finality of it made his chest ache.

Sherlock's expression was unreadable. "Good. That's settled then." He stood up and took his barely touched plate of food to the sink and rinsed it all down the drain. "I'll go send that text." A moment later, he went to his room, and closed the door.

John had never felt so fucking helpless in his life. No matter what he did now, he was going to hurt Sherlock and Mary. It wasn't even an either/or proposition. He was already hurting them, and it wasn't going to get better anytime soon. 

Mary would not question his forgiveness, even after five and a half months of silence. They had spent just one month together as husband and wife, and parents-to-be. Barely enough time to settle into either role, but long enough to realize that the baby would forever trump everything else. Whether John would ever be able to feel the way he had that first month was a question he couldn't begin to answer. 

Sherlock finally got the decision he'd been pressing for, but knowing the end date clearly didn't make it any easier. John suspected that Sherlock had suddenly started trying to push him out precisely because he had realized how much he wanted him to stay. They both had been happier these past two weeks than either had been in a long time. It was almost as if the past three years had never happened. And the familiarity of living here again was becoming dangerously comfortable. Sherlock was right to force an end to it. 

There really was no going back.

* * * * * 

End of Chapter 10


	11. It's Over

* * * * *

Sherlock's text was surprisingly short, considering its life-altering content. She had read it multiple times, and the message was unmistakable. John had made his decision.

_Mary, please come to Christmas dinner at my parents' home. Will send driving directions a few days ahead. John will be there. SH_

Sherlock would not have chosen a family occasion if John intended to tell her it was over. He would not have asked her to drive her own car unless John would be coming home with her. Sherlock was personally extending the invitation instead of John because this was his way of taking well-deserved credit for his efforts, and letting her know he was okay with the results.

But she knew it wasn't what he really wanted. She was about to be the recipient of the greatest gift Sherlock could give, and she was the only one who appreciated what it was costing him. She had always known how much he meant to John, but John had always told her that Sherlock was not capable of any real emotional attachment. John thought Sherlock had initially been attracted by John's admiration because he'd never had that reaction from anyone before. After that, he'd just become used to having John around. He downplayed his importance to Sherlock because he couldn't see it, just as he couldn't understand why so many people thought they were a couple. It drove him to distraction. She wondered how he could still be so blind. 

Mycroft had told her that Sherlock would be her greatest ally in reconciling with John, and everything she and Sherlock had discussed in their covert phone conversations since he left the hospital confirmed it. Whether John was giving in now out of obligation, or because he was ready to forgive her, remained to be seen. But Sherlock had kept after him, and she owed him for whatever chance she now had. The first step was about to be taken, and she was more than ready to do whatever it took to win back John's trust. She was prepared for a fight.

* * * * *

Magnussen's room in his Mind Palace was cold and sterile. Glass walls and white carpet. A glass and chrome desk, bare of any clutter, with a large leather chair behind it, and a pair of smaller leather seats in front for his prey. The air smelled of Magnussen's expensive cologne, old parchment and money.

When he'd still been in hospital, he had taken a mental side trip to a restaurant he used to visit on the rare occasions when his appetite was active. They served a penne pasta dish that was one of the few meals he would actually seek out. Magnussen had wandered out of his Mind Palace room and found him there. That was when the plan had taken shape. 

Sherlock had removed the spectacles from Magnussen's face, something he could hardly do in reality. For reasons he had yet to identify, the spectacles did not provide the answers he had expected. The data he had been so certain Magnussen was always reading when he met with anyone was invisible to Sherlock. He couldn't decide what this meant, or what clue he had picked up unconsciously that his Mind Palace was trying to make him see. It could be that the data was encrypted, which would be a logical precaution, or perhaps it was accessed by some other means entirely. Possibly Magnussen had a microchip implanted in his head that was required to activate the display. 

But that wasn't important. Gaining access to the original documents was his goal, and he knew how to do it. Magnussen's ultimate goal was Mycroft, and Sherlock knew exactly how to take advantage of that to make a trade that would keep Mary and John safe. 

The meeting to arrange his visit to Appledore had to be held in a location that would avoid Mycroft's tedious surveillance. His office was obviously not an option, nor was Baker Street. Ultimately, Magnussen hired a private car and picked him up around the corner from 221B. All Mycroft's men would be able to report was that Sherlock had gotten into a limousine with blacked out windows, and then emerged from it nine minutes later without the vehicle having moved from the spot. If Mycroft had them trace the ownership of the vehicle, the false name of the man who had hired it would lead nowhere. It might raise his brother's suspicion, but it would not connect to Magnussen. 

If Magnussen seemed a bit too confident, it was a factor in Sherlock's favor. He had left nothing to chance.

* * * * *

As the Christmas deadline rapidly approached, John began to feel the tension in even the smallest interactions. With only a week to go, there was a forced normalcy about everything that had them both on edge. Lestrade called with a case that Sherlock solved without rising from the sofa. John repeated the solution into the phone as Sherlock rattled it off in a tone that seemed exaggeratedly bored. Lestrade didn't ask about Mary, and John didn't offer any explanation for having answered Sherlock's mobile.

John put the phone back on the coffee table after the call ended, then stood watching Sherlock until the silence made him look up. 

"What?" Irritated, but almost on autopilot.

"Sherlock, you haven't said a dozen words since yesterday. If you're pissed about something, I wish you'd just tell me."

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance, then resumed his previous pose, stretched out on the sofa with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes were closed. "I'm thinking."

John started to walk away in frustration, then turned back and sat down on the end of the coffee table. "What are you thinking about?"

Heavy sigh, but he opened his eyes and looked at John. "If you are under the impression that my mood has something to do with you, please do get over it. I am not 'pissed'. I'm busy." He closed his eyes.

"If this is getting to be too awkward, I could leave now instead of waiting for Christmas. I imagine Mary would be fine with that." 

Sherlock looked at him briefly, then resumed his position. "It's all fine, John."

"Okay. That's good." He went to his chair, utterly unconvinced, and picked up the book he'd been pretending to read all morning. 

A few minutes later, Sherlock got up and went back to his bedroom. He came out a short time later, dressed in a white shirt and black suit. "I'll be out for a while." He pulled on his coat and scarf.

John got up and walked over to him. "Out where?"

Sherlock gave him an arch look. "Don't wait dinner." He turned, breezed through the door and down the stairs. 

John went to the window in time to see him hail a cab and get into it. He watched it head up Baker Street and turn right, out of sight. 

If he was not planning to be back before dinner time, that meant he'd be gone for at least five hours, which took this out of the realm of temper tantrum and put a knot in John's gut. If he was haring off on a case without backup... But then, that's how it was going to be soon. This would be his new normal, a thought that did nothing to ease the knot.

It was nearly impossible to be sure what Sherlock was feeling under the best of circumstances, and this was anything but. John had seen him demonstrate his acting abilities too many times to ever take any display of emotion at face value. He knew Sherlock cared about him as much as he was capable of caring about anyone. He knew he'd expected to come back after two years and just pick up where they had left off. That would be an incomprehensible attitude in anyone else, but it was just the way Sherlock was wired. Sherlock wanted him to stay, but he wanted him to go back with Mary even more. Mary had been convinced that Sherlock had thrown himself into the wedding preparations because the thought of John getting married had upset him so much. The look Sherlock had given him at the reception seemed to back her up, but he couldn't be sure that had been real any more than he could believe what he was seeing now. It wasn't that he thought he was being deliberately deceived. Sherlock was feeling abandoned, and that had always seemed to be an issue for him. He was losing someone he'd become comfortable having around, but it was no more complicated than that.

John's own feelings about his departure were more complex. He had long ago given up trying to put a name to whatever it was he had with Sherlock, although he couldn't resist defending his gender preference on occasion. Mrs. Hudson seemed particularly adept at hitting his hot button on that topic, and she had started in on it from their very first meeting. He knew that there had been a betting pool at Scotland Yard for years now, and the smart money had been on John and Sherlock being lovers. He imagined that the odds had changed since his marriage, but there were still those who would insist that Mary was nothing but a beard to quell the rumors. 

Irene Adler had believed they were a couple. That whole experience had come with a few uncomfortable moments, he had to admit. He had disliked her on sight, but given that his first glimpse of her had been straddling Sherlock stark naked, that reaction was understandable. What had not been so clear to him was his reaction to her after that. She had obviously been interested in Sherlock for more than his mind, but it had been Sherlock's attraction to her that had bothered him most. Her death had put Sherlock into a tailspin like nothing John had ever seen, and it had scared the hell out of him. When she had died for real, John had lied to him for the first time, but it had been because he couldn't bear to see him go through that again. His own reaction to her being permanently gone had been even more disturbing. Feeling relief at the death of another human being, other than Moriarty, was just wrong. He'd told himself that it was protectiveness that had made him try to keep her away from Sherlock. The man wasn't equipped to deal with a woman like Irene Adler. Not many men were, but especially not Sherlock. 

It wasn't until Janine Murtagh came on the scene, and the feeling had resurfaced, that he began to question his definition. But it hadn't been just his own feelings that had bothered him. Sherlock's behavior had seemed deliberately aimed at making him react. He'd kept up the ruse of Janine being his actual girlfriend when she was no longer even in the flat There was no earthly point to that other than to inspire the very response John had provided. Even now, he wasn't able to give that response a name, but there was really only one thing it could have been. Both the fact that he'd felt it, and that Sherlock had wanted to see it, were unsettling to his view of who they were to each other.

When he had thought Sherlock was dying, an event that had repeated itself far too often recently, he had been forced to consider his feelings in more detail than he'd done since his five week stint in the private hospital that Mycroft had slapped him into on the first anniversary of what he'd thought was Sherlock's death. Knowing that Mycroft would get his hands on everything he said, patient privacy be damned, had made it hard to open up, but he was so desperate to stop feeling dead himself that he'd given in. 

After the second session, his therapist had asked him if he was in love with Sherlock, and his first reaction was to tell her to piss off. Then she had asked him what he thought it meant that he was on suicide watch in a mental hospital a year after the man's death. He'd told her that he knew throwing himself off that roof would be the wrong way to kill the pain, but there was something so poetically just about it that it had begun to feel inevitable.

He wasn't in love with Sherlock, not by any definition he understood. There had never been any kind of physical attraction, but the intense emotional bond was unlike any he had ever felt. Sherlock had been the most important person in his life, and his loss had left a gaping hole that would never heal. 

His final session with his therapist had ended with him signing out of the hospital. He wasn't angry. He had simply realized that there was nothing more the therapy could do for him. He had accepted that the loss would always be part of him, like the phantom pain of an amputated limb. He would learn to live with it. The knowledge didn't make him feel any better, but he never spent another night camped in front of Bart's contemplating the roof. And four months later, he met Mary Morstan. 

And now, back in the mucked up present, he had finally come to a decision that he should never have had to consider. He knew what he was going to say to Mary, and there was really no good reason to wait another week to say it at Sherlock's parents' house. Nothing would change between now and then, and there was good reason to think that delaying the inevitable was just going to make everything more difficult. He didn't even need to pack anything. His clothes were still at home with Mary. Everything he'd bought to live here could stay. All he had to do was walk out to the street, and hail a cab. Sherlock would be just as fine without him now as he would be in a week. 

He walked out to the kitchen and found the notepad.

_S, There's no sense dragging this out. You know where I am, if you need me. J_

He left the note on the counter, then pulled on his coat and stood at the door to look back at the familiar living room and the life he was leaving behind. The one he'd thought was lost once before. He'd been wrong then. He wasn't now. A moment later, he swallowed the ache in his throat and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock was standing at the kerb facing him when he came out of the door. Sherlock came toward him and stopped just out of reach. John cleared his throat. "I thought you left."

"Where were you going?"

"I was..." He looked away from Sherlock's intense gaze. Those damned eyes were like lasers. "I wrote you a note. I thought it would be easier if I just left now. There's no sense dr--"

Sherlock stepped around him and pushed the door open. By the time John followed him inside, he had already cleared the landing.

When John caught up with him, he was standing in the kitchen with the note in his gloved hands. Head down. Reading. 

John stopped in the doorway. "Sherlock."

It was several more seconds, much longer than it would have taken him to read the note, before he looked up. The pain in his eyes flashed so quickly that it couldn't have been there for effect. A moment later, his expression was unreadable. "I think it would be best to stay with the plans we've already made." He placed the note back on the counter and went out to the living room. 

John followed and found him hanging his coat on the door hook. He took the scarf off and balled it up in one of the pockets. The gloves went in the other pocket. He turned around to face John. "If you feel the need to alter what we've already set up, I would appreciate being included." He walked to the hearth, crouched in front of it, and started poking at the fire.

John watched him for a long moment. "I'm sorry. I thought it would be easier if I just--"

"You were wrong," Sherlock cut him off, the comment having been addressed to the fireplace. His back was to John, and there was something in his voice that sounded like anything but anger.

If this was real, the implications were troubling. "Are you having second thoughts about this? About me leaving?"

Long pause. Sherlock kept fiddling with the fire. "No."

And then suddenly, he stood up and rubbed his hands together briskly. "I'll make some tea." And he headed out to the kitchen. "I'll bring you a cup," he called back to John. His voice sounded completely normal, but his smile was glassy.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." John took off his coat and tossed it at the chair by the desk, then sank into his own chair by the fire. Silence from the kitchen instead of the sounds of tea making made him glance over his shoulder to see what he was doing. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, watching him. He lifted his gaze to the window as soon as John turned his way, but he was just a second too slow.

He brought two cups of tea a few minutes later. The rest of the evening was back to normal, as was the remaining week. John never caught another glimpse of whatever had been going on with Sherlock. Not until Christmas Day, when the world ended for the last time.

* * * * *

It's dark, but John doesn't remember the sun going down. Darkness split by the blinding spotlight from the helicopter hovering thirty feet off the ground in front of them. The prop wash is blowing Sherlock's coat out behind him like a flag of surrender. Hands raised in the air over his head, on his knees next to the body on the black stone patio. Laser sighting dots dance over Sherlock's head and chest like fireflies on a summer night.

John shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. Catch up, dammnit.

_Get away from me, John! Stay well back!_

_Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now._

Mycroft's voice shouting at the armed men to stand fire.

Trying desperately to comprehend what just happened.

And then everyone is moving, and Sherlock is face down, arms cuffed behind his back. Multiple rifles, inches from his head.

John still hasn't found his voice when they jerk Sherlock to his feet and start marching him off. 

John barely notices the hands patting him down, searching him for weapons when the only one he's ever had is on the ground next to the body where Sherlock dropped it.

_Why would I bring my gun to your parents' house for Christmas dinner?_

Cuffs click on, but with his hands in front of him. 

Sherlock is being pushed into a black van with no windows, just a few feet away from where they've just marched John to a waiting car.

"No, I have to go with him." John's voice comes back at top volume, but no one is listening. "Sherlock! Wait, you can't do this. Let me go with him. Please."

_No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please. Just let me..._

Sherlock doesn't look back. The van doors close, and the reality of it all finally sets in. 

It's over.

* * * * *

END OF CHAPTER 11


	12. The Best Man

* * * * *

Mary was behind the wheel of their Audi, dividing her attention between the road ahead, and John's silent presence in the passenger seat. He was staring blankly at the windscreen, wondering if he had finally reached the point where his emotions had been racked to the limit one too many times, and there was nothing left to feel. 

"John, please. Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?

She quickly checked the traffic, then shook her head tightly before she looked back at him. "I want you to tell me what happened."

Now, there was a loaded question. Where to start? "When?"

That startled her. She shook her head again. "What do you mean, 'when'? Did you know he was going to drug me and his entire family? Where the hell did you go? Why was his brother going ballistic in the kitchen when I woke up?" That was all delivered to the windscreen with rising volume while she kept one hand on the steering wheel and gestured tensely with the other. She took a breath and looked at him. "John, where is Sherlock?" She had found her calm voice again.

He could imagine Mycroft's reaction when he realized his brother and his laptop were missing. He must have been a wild man. He looked at her. "Sherlock killed Magnussen. Shot him in the head, in front of God and everybody. It was quite a surprise." He could hear the flatness in his voice, and some part of his mind recognized it as shock. He wasn't too dulled to notice the brief flash of relief in Mary's eyes before the worry came back to smother it.

"Oh my God. John, are you all right?" She reached for his hand and frowned when she made contact. "Your fingers are like ice."

He didn't feel cold. He didn't feel anything. "It's winter."

He didn't think they were headed for Baker Street. Probably Mary's house. Home. They were reconciled, after all. For almost six hours, he estimated. He could check his watch, but then he wasn't entirely sure what time he had said his carefully prepared words. The legal processing at the jail had taken a couple of hours so, yeah. Six hours sounded right. Mycroft said they would not let him see Sherlock, probably for a long time. That would obviously have to change.

What had happened couldn't have been what Sherlock had planned. He would not have taken him along if all he was going to do was kill Magnussen. He would have wanted John there to be impressed when he outwitted Mary's blackmailer. That had always been his role, after all. Appreciative audience of one. But it didn't work out that way this time. Magnussen had outwitted them all. The documents weren't there. They weren't even real. John had actually smiled at first, thinking the threat was an empty one now. Looking back, he knew that must have been the moment when Sherlock had realized there was only one way now to save Mary and him, and he had made the only choice left to him. John had replayed it over and over in his head. He might not have a memory like Sherlock's, but certain events were so life-changing that they had a way of branding every moment in even a normal brain with excruciating detail. 

When Sherlock had hung back, letting John go out front with Magnussen to wait for the ax to fall, it should have started the alarms clanging, but it hadn't. John had been too consumed with the new threat of spending his life in prison for treason, since Sherlock apparently had no backup plan. When Sherlock had come out to join them, the tight control of his movements and the hollow look in his eyes should have screamed a warning, but John had been too busy squaring off on Magnussen to notice. When Magnussen had decided to entertain himself by humiliating John in front of Sherlock (I'm sorry, just... let him), the murderous rage building in Sherlock's face simply seemed like anger on John's behalf.

Then the helicopter had shown up, and Magnussen had been too busy gloating to notice the change in Sherlock's demeanor. From seething anger to deadly calm. Sherlock had asked Magnussen to confirm that the information he held over everyone was nowhere but in his Mind Palace. John should have seen what was happening, but he'd been too focused on the tactical team taking aim on them from all sides. He hadn't even noticed when Sherlock reached around him to take the gun. Even when Sherlock had stepped in front of him and raised the gun to Magnussen's head, he couldn't accept what was about to happen.

There was no excuse. He'd had so many chances to stop it. He could have left the bloody gun at the flat. He could have paid attention to the mounting evidence that the plan was falling apart, and taking Sherlock with it. He could have recognized the look on Sherlock's face when Magnussen was tormenting him. But at every opportunity, he had missed the signs, and now there was nothing he could do. Sherlock had thrown his life away in front of John's eyes, and he'd obviously been prepared to die on the spot for it, mowed down by automatic gunfire when he had pulled that trigger. Maybe it was even what he'd wanted. The prospect of spending his remaining years in prison would have made the choice easy for him. John's stomach rolled. Jesus, Sherlock.

From their very first case, Sally Donovan had warned him to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, but she'd had it backward. She'd thought she was protecting John from Sherlock. The truth was exactly the opposite.

_You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends._

Sally was wrong about that, too. Sherlock had relied on him from the first to help him interpret the people around him who never gave him a chance to be anything but the sociopath they expected to see. He and Sherlock had been friends from the start. John just never understood until tonight that he had, at some point, become more important to Sherlock than his own life.

"John? We're home."

He looked up, not particularly surprised that he had no idea how much time had passed. That six hour estimate was probably just as unreliable. He wondered idly if it was still the same day. He got out of the car and followed her into the house.

She made tea for herself and brought him a glass of Scotch unasked. He had walked to the armchair facing the door and dropped into it without taking off his coat. He accepted the drink and took a long swallow that burned all the way down. 

Mary sat down on the end of the sofa, within reach of his chair, but she didn't reach out to him. She sipped her tea and watched him. He sipped his Scotch and let her. 

Finally, she took a deep breath and put down her cup. She waited until he looked at her. "You think this is my fault, too, don't you?"

He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "I don't think there's anything that matters less to me right now than whose fault it is." He looked at her. "He did it for me, Mary. Who gave him the excuse is just detail."

She reached over and put her hand over his. "You are the last person on earth who has anything to feel guilty about. You saved him, John."

He winced at that. "I can't save him now. I don't have anything left to fight with. He's thrown his life away." He raised his hand from the arm of the chair, dislodging hers without meaning it. He'd simply forgotten hers was there. "There's nothing anyone can do."

Her eyes glistened with tears, but she blinked them away. "What's going to happen to him?"

The breath he pulled in to answer her hitched in his throat. "It's over. No matter what comes next, he won't survive this." 

She shook her head. "His brother won't let that happen. He's--"

"His bloody brother is the one who had him arrested. He can't do anything about this. Sherlock shot Magnussen in the head in front of twenty witnesses, all of them cops of one type or another. There's no way out of it. He might just as well have invited a news crew in to broadcast it live. Let the whole bloody country watch." He shook his head. "I need to think. I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it anymore." When she didn't respond, he looked over at her. "Are you okay?"

She pressed her right hand to her lips to muffle a sound that could have been the beginning of a sob. She shook her head. "This is all my fault. And stop right there, John. I'm not saying this to get you to deny it. When we talked at Sherlock's parents', none of this had happened. I have to know what you're feeling now. Please. I know it's not fair with what you've just been through, but I think if we don't talk it through now, the damage might be permanent."

He exhaled slowly. "Mary, I love you. I want to be here for you and the baby. Isn't that enough for now?"

"No, John, You can't do either of those things forever in a vacuum. You thought not reading the memory stick was proof of trust, but that's not how I see it. You're trying to ignore what I am and what I've done, and that won't last. We can't rebuild on willful blindness.   
You have to know that."

He knew she was right, but he was so fucking tired. He felt as if the bones had been jerked from his body, and there was nothing holding him up but adrenaline. He was afraid that his decision to come back might not be able to withstand the challenge she was asking him to accept. If it wasn't, maybe this was the time to find out. He put down his drink. "I think I'd like a cup of tea. No, I'll get it. Put your feet up. I think it's going to be a long night."

When he came back to the living room, she seemed composed and ready. He handed one cup to her and sank wearily into his chair. "Okay, where do you want to start?"

"When you enlisted in the Army, did you really know what you were signing up for? Looking back?"

He took a breath and puffed it out. "No, of course not. No matter how prepared you think you are, seeing a soldier blown to pieces is impossible to imagine or describe to anyone who hasn't been there. It changes you. In good ways and bad." He patted his right thigh, the leg that had the psychosomatic limp. That proved to be a mistake, because his memory immediately presented him with the image of the two of them leaning against the wall at Baker Street that first night, laughing and out of breath, just before Angelo brought him the cane he would never use again. 

"I know how much he helped you, John. And I know how much he means to you. So, the hardest part of all is understanding why I would shoot him. I will get there, but I need to do it my way, if you'll let me."

He was having a hard time keeping this fresh bloom of anger out of his voice. He knew she would see it in his eyes. "I want to hear you out." 

"Thank you. I know how hard this is." She shifted her position a bit to face him squarely. "When I was approached by a CIA recruiter, I was young and idealistic, which made me a prime candidate. I will tell you as much or as little about this as you want. Just stop me at any point, if you think I'm glossing over anything." 

"Let's stick with the least detail, for now." 

"Okay. They don't start you out as an assassin. Everyone is an analyst, until various skillsets become evident. It's a bit like the way soldiers in basic training are sorted out by the abilities and aptitudes they demonstrate in those first few weeks."

This was not helping. "And your skillset made them sort you as an assassin? What skillset was that?"

She leveled her gaze on his. "Marksmanship. Languages. Physical characteristics. IQ score. Essentially, I was a smart, harmless looking linguist who was an exceptionally good shot with every weapon they handed to me. They knew they would make me an assassin, but I didn't. They ease you into it. Like relaxing in a warm bath, and having the water temperature increased a degree at a time until you're soup. You don't realize what's happening until it's too late to get out."

"And they chose the right woman, didn't they? You were very good at it." It was anything but a compliment.

"Yes. I was. And for a long time, I truly believed that I was a soldier in a good cause. The missions always sounded perfectly plausible as 'defense of country'. That's how they keep you motivated. But after a series of very questionable missions, I began asking the questions instead of just fuming over them, and it drew a lot of the wrong kind of attention. Not all of the people I worked with, and worked for, were entirely above board. I didn't know that, but I found out. When I tried to leave, I was labeled a security risk. If I hadn't run, I would be in some hellhole of a prison somewhere, spending the rest of my life with no hope of ever getting out. I'm no longer proud of what I did, John. But I will always be proud of my reasons for doing it."

His anger was fading, but he knew that was very likely about to change. "And you lied to me about it, why? Didn't you trust me?"

"How long would you have wanted to keep seeing me if I'd come out with what I just told you? Be honest."

"I'm not talking about bringing it up on the first date, but once things became serious, and certainly after I proposed, you owed me the whole truth."

She studied him for a long time. "Why didn't you ever tell me that you killed a man to save Sherlock when you'd barely known him for 36 hours? And that you suffered no consequences and felt no remorse? Aside from comparing body counts, how is what you did different from what I did?"

There was only one person who knew about this, as far as he'd ever known, and that was Sherlock. "Who told you that?"

"First, answer my question, please."

He felt like he'd been sucker punched. "It's different because I was doing it to save his life, not to pick up a paycheck. The man was a serial killer, and I shot him to keep him from making Sherlock his fifth victim." 

She nodded. "And that could be the dossier on every person I was assigned to kill, John. The details differ, but the basic idea was always the same. You were in the military. Did you have the time to analyze every order? Ask for justification? Make sure you were being told the truth?"

He folded his arms. "Nice job distracting me from my question. Why didn't you tell me this before we got married?"

"Nice job avoiding my question, too. You first."

"Military units couldn't operate if every order was up for debate. You knew that I would have to agree with that. I'm sure that's why you said it." He took a breath "You've obviously thought this through, and you've made some points that I can't debate. Maybe I can even accept that you were taken in, and got out of it when you saw what it really was. That doesn't explain why you lied to me until you were cornered into telling me the truth." He met her eyes directly. "Or why you almost killed my friend."

She took a deep breath. "Because I was afraid you would feel exactly the way you apparently feel, and yes I know that makes me a coward as well as a liar. I'm not proud of it, John. By the time you and I were close enough that you needed to know, I was too much in love with you to risk losing you over something I foolishly thought I could keep hidden. I'm sorry, and if I could do it over, I would."

_Mistakes can't be undone, John. That's why they require forgiveness._

He went still, remembering. Sherlock's voice in his head was comforting and painful, and maybe the only way he would ever hear it now.

"John?" 

He shook his head. "You just made me remember something Sherlock said about mistakes. They can't be undone, and that's why they require forgiveness."

Her eyes grew soft. "He's an amazing man, John. You're so lucky to have found him."

"I didn't find him. He found me." His anger flared. "How could you stand there, look him in the eye, and pull that trigger when you KNEW all he wanted to do was help you? How does it feel to nearly kill someone who trusted you so much that he didn't even flinch when you pointed a loaded automatic at his heart?"

"You know I wasn't aiming for his heart, John." She was on the brink of tears.

"And you know you didn't have to hit his heart to kill him." He was not trying to hide his anger. "He died before the first surgery, did you know that? The doctors had given up and were going to pronounce him dead."

She nodded miserably. "Yes, I know. And he nearly died in the flat after he made us talk. I was there, John. I'm sorry. I don't know what more I can say."

He had his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. "I saw you at Leinster Gardens. Before you knew I was there. You weren't talking to him the way you are to me. It was like he was a stranger to you, or worse. Like someone you were there to silence. Is that why you kicked the coin instead of handing it to him? You know, that may have been when he did the most damage to himself, bending over to pick up that fucking coin. Did you even care how much that was going to hurt him?"

She was shaking her head, tears spilling over. "There is nothing I can say that will ever make this right, is there? I should have let you pretend that you were going to forgive me, and maybe you would have in time." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I made a mistake, John. Everything I've done, including what I did to Sherlock, was out of fear, and it guaranteed the exact outcome I was so desperate to prevent."

"How could you be afraid of a man who was barely five days out of emergency surgery? I don't know how he was even able to stand up. You could have pushed him down with one hand and stepped over him. You didn't need a gun unless you wanted to kill him."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and met his furious gaze. "You are so blind. I was afraid of him for the same reason I've always been afraid of him, John. You love him more than anyone in this world, including me, and you always have." She took a breath. "I can share you with him, but I can't lose you because of him."

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "You think I love him more than I love you?" The words came out slowly. Disbelievingly. 

"You do, John, but that's not why I shot him. That's why I'm afraid of him. I took my gun to Leinster Gardens because I wanted to make him afraid of me, too, so he wouldn't tell you what I did. I wasn't going to use it. I shot him in Magnussen's office because it was the only way I knew to get out of that building without you knowing I was there. I was wrong. I made the wrong choice. I made a mistake. Call it whatever you want. It all comes down to one question: Can you love me, knowing what I did? Sherlock has forgiven me. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"It tells me he's a better person than either one of us."

"He's certainly a better person than I am, John. But not better than you. He told you exactly how he feels in his speech, and you heard every word of that. You're the best man he's ever known. He and I have that in common."

His gut clenched. "I'm the worst catastrophe that's ever happened to him. I can link every crazy thing he's done since we met to him trying to protect me from someone or something." The more he looked at this revelation, the more it hurt.

"No, John. You're the best thing that's ever happened to him. He told you that. He told a whole room of strangers that. And he told everyone, including you, that he loves you as much as I do. So don't tell me you still doubt it."

"If he does, look what it's gotten him. And you." He let the bitterness come through.

"John, there's no price I wouldn't pay to have your love, and I know Sherlock has already proved that he will do anything to keep you safe. Do you think we don't know the risks? All of us, including you? Especially you. Look at the price you've paid for loving us."

He looked at her then, but her focus had moved to her hands resting on her swollen abdomen, lightly stroking the movement he could see. Their baby seemed to be pushing back. "I owe you my life. I forget that sometimes." 

She cleared her throat. "It was Sherlock's brother."

That threw him. "What was?"

"He was the one who told me you shot that man. He was trying to tell me how devoted you are to Sherlock, and why you need each other. He didn't have to convince me."

"How did..." But of course, that was a foolish question. Mycroft knew everything. "When did he tell you?"

"The day he told me that he knew what I'd done. He told me that I might just as well have aimed that bullet at you." She took a shaky breath. "He's right, isn't he? But how does he know that?"

He didn't want to get into how Mycroft had come to that conclusion. It would mean telling her that he'd actually contemplated suicide more than once after he'd thought Sherlock was dead, and that Mycroft was actually responsible for stopping his closest attempt. Suddenly he realized something, and he looked over at her in surprise.

She sat up straight. "What?"

"I was just going over in my head how best to keep something from you that I have no right to hide. Ironic, don't you think?"

"You see the problem? Not a good feeling, is it?"

"No. It's not." He took a breath. "A year after Sherlock jumped off that roof, I was out walking one night and found myself standing in front of Bart's a little after midnight, and I wondered if it might be time to just give up and follow him."

She gasped and pressed her right hand to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, John. I had no idea it was that bad."

"Mycroft had me under surveillance, as it turned out. When he realized where I was, and what it might mean, he sent Greg Lestrade to talk to me. I told Greg what I was thinking, more or less. He called Mycroft, and an hour later I was in a private psychiatric hospital. Mycroft paid for everything. I was there for five weeks before I signed myself out. They'd done all they were going to be able to do for me. My therapist was becoming a bit of a broken record with trying to get me to put a label on my relationship with Sherlock. She asked me point blank once if I was in love with him."

"I can imagine how that went over." Mary paused. "You are, you know."

He frowned. "I am 'what'?"

"In love with him," she held up both hands as if warding him off, but she allowed a small smile to show. "I don't mean romantically, for heaven's sake. Relax, John. I know you've been hearing that for years. Did you ever wonder why?"

He snorted. "Yeah, you could say that."

"People see how devoted you are to Sherlock, and how much you've changed him for the better. It's a natural conclusion. Sherlock isn't offended by it, and you shouldn't bother responding to it, either."

He shook his head slowly. "Sherlock doesn't respond because he doesn't care what anyone thinks about him. I learned that the hard way."

"He does care, John. He cares what you think about everything. He measures his success by it. That's why--" She stopped, her expression frozen beneath eyes widened with dismay.

"Yeah, that's why he killed Magnussen in front of me. I know that."

Her chin lifted. "John, this is going to work out, I promise you. No matter what, Mycroft will figure a way out for Sherlock. You know he won't let him go to jail for this."

"They have to let me see him." He was feeling the fight or flight push of adrenaline, and started flexing his fists on his knees to release it. "And I think I'd like to go back to Scotch."

Mary got up from the sofa, and this time she let him help her. "Let me get it for you." She came back a moment later with his refilled glass.

"John, are we going to be okay?" She brushed her fingers lightly through his hair.

He decided honesty was the only way to go. "I feel better about us, and I know I love you." He touched her belly softly. "I also know we have one very good thing going for us already."

She bent down and kissed the top of his head. "I know you have a lot on your mind. I'm going to let you work on that while I go put the baby to bed for a nap." She smiled. "Good night, John. And thank you."

He smiled. One hurdle at a time.

* * * * *

Mary lay alone in their bed, propped in a sitting position with four pillows. It was the only way she was comfortable now. The baby made it impossible to breathe if she tried to sleep in any other position. She had put new sheets on the bed for John's homecoming. A bright white background dotted with yellow sunflowers. They were meant to signify new beginnings and the promise of tomorrow. An hour ago, that would have felt like a cruel joke, but she had hope now.

John thought he was the cause of Sherlock's self-destruction, but he was so wrong. He was Sherlock's salvation. She had done this to them. That she had never intended any of it had been something she had wanted so badly to explain, and now it seemed that John was willing to listen. She could ask for no more than that. He was the most fair minded man she had ever met. 

Sherlock was beyond the help of Mycroft Holmes? He had given her an entirely different impression. Fallibility was not part of his DNA. So, he was giving up on Sherlock, and making John believe that he had no alternative. Well, she wasn't going to let that happen.

John had actually given her the solution. If it ended up working as well as she expected, she would make a point of telling him that.

* * * * *  
 _A/N:_ There's only one more to go. Chapter 13 will be posted in the next few days. I would love to hear your comments

END OF CHAPTER 12


	13. This is the way the world ends.

* * * * *  
Exhaustion had forced him from the chair to the sofa some time after four in the morning. He woke in daylight to the sound of Mary's voice and the gentle touch of her hand on his forehead.

"John? Mycroft Holmes wants to talk to you."

He clenched his eyes shut and opened them again, trying to focus. "Yeah, okay. Just give me the phone." He felt as if he'd been asleep for days. As awareness came flooding back, his chest went cold with dread. If Mycroft was calling, something had happened to Sherlock. He sat bolt upright, nearly knocking Mary off balance as he swung his legs to the floor.

"No, John. He's here." She glanced over her shoulder. Mycroft was standing stiffly on the other side of the room.

"What's happened? Is Sherlock all right?"

Mycroft looked pained, and John's heart turned over. " _Tell me_."

Mycroft and Mary exchanged a look. Something passed between them that not even John's shocked and exhausted brain could miss. "I'll be out here, if you need me." She went into the kitchen and closed the door.

Mycroft walked to the armchair next to the sofa and sat down. "Nothing has happened to Sherlock. He wanted me to tell you that he's fine."

His emotions were back online with a vengeance. He took a deep breath. "You have to get me in to see him."

"I will send a car for you later this afternoon. He wants to tell you good bye."

His mouth went dry. "What do you mean, 'good bye'?" 

"There won't be a court case. I've called in a favor, and he's to be exiled instead. Permanently. You won't see him after this. None of us will. It was his choice, John. You must abide by it."

Mycroft's smooth certainty flipped the switch, and John was instantly furious. "Like hell, I will! Don't tell me there's nothing you can do because I don't buy it. Call in a better favor, for Christ's sake! Say he was temporarily insane, which has to be the truth anyway. He killed a man in front of armed witnesses. If that's not insanity, I don't know what would be. You can't let him do this." He ducked his head and closed his eyes, breathing to dissipate the rush of adrenaline that was making his hands ball into fists. When he looked up, Mycroft was studying the wall over his head. It reminded him so much of Sherlock that he wanted to scream. 

"John, you know as well as I do that prison would kill him as surely as an executioner's noose, but much more painfully. This way, he will be able to work. It's the best we can do."

John shook his head, jabbing a finger a foot from Mycroft's face. "It's not even close to the best you can do, and you know it. You're the British Government, for fuck's sake. You can't let this happen. This is my fault. Tell them it was my fault. I'll tell them it was my fault. I put him up to it. I--" He broke off and took a breath. "It was my gun. I should have known. I should have..." The list of his failures was endless.

"Making yourself culpable would serve only to render my brother's sacrifice pointless." Mycroft regarded him calmly for a long moment. "The car will be here at three o'clock to take you to the airstrip. Pull yourself together, John. Do it for Sherlock. He doesn't have a choice, and neither do you. Don't make it harder on him than it already is." 

The anger drained out of him and left his voice flat. "You can't let this happen."

Mycroft stood up. "There's nothing I can do. The car will be here at three." He turned and walked out of the house.

A moment later, Mary came out of the kitchen. "John, are you alright?"

He didn't look at her. She didn't need to see what he knew had to be in his eyes. "I'm fine." It might be the biggest lie he had ever told. 

* * * * *

Mary waited until she heard the shower running before she took the phone from her purse and stepped outside. She was about to destroy her last cover identity, but the alternative was unthinkable.

Mycroft had called her before he arrived this morning, and he had told her what Sherlock's exile would mean. It was a suicide mission, and Sherlock knew it. Her heart broke for all of them. "You can't tell John."

His voice had gone eerily calm. "I don't intend to tell him, because he would never let Sherlock get on the plane. I need you to know the truth because Sherlock may not last six months. John will need all the support we can give him when it happens." He had paused. "And I wanted you to know that our arrangement is nullified, for obvious reasons. Sherlock has paid far more for your freedom than you could ever repay. I do hope you will make the best of the life he's given back to you."

She had been unable to speak. A moment later, Mycroft had ended the call. Five minutes later, he was at her door to talk to John.

She could not allow this to happen. The person she was about to contact would be bound to reveal that he had heard from her. It would only be a matter of time before they found her. She would deal with the consequences later. Right now, she had one goal in mind. Keep Sherlock from being sent away. Whatever it would cost her came a distant second to keeping John from that kind of pain. Mycroft was right. If John lost Sherlock again, not even she would be able to save him.

She dialed the number and waited for the international call to connect. John had given her the idea. She needed to create a threat that was dangerous to the entire country. One that was immediately visible to everyone at the same time, and one that Sherlock was uniquely suited to address. There was very little time to set it up, but she knew someone who could do it. He just had to make sure it happened before that plane took off.

* * * * *

Mycroft was doing his best to follow the advice he'd given John Watson a few hours ago, but it was proving to be more difficult than he had imagined. He was driving his own brother to his execution. A slow death. And he would die alone.

Sherlock was quiet, sitting against the door as far from Mycroft as he could manage. Looking out at the passing countryside, and surely seeing none of it.

They had spent the past twelve hours tying up loose ends. Sherlock had updated his will, leaving everything to John and his child. There would be the matter of proving Sherlock's death, which could be difficult. Sherlock had insisted that Mycroft make every effort to have his body found and returned to England. He wanted John to have proof this time. John would be shocked by the value of Sherlock's estate. It had all been placed into trusts to keep him from using it for drugs, long past the point where that had been necessary. Sherlock simply didn't care about the money. It amounted to more than three million pounds at this point. John's family would be well cared for. Mycroft had casually suggested that the will be amended to include the child, and Sherlock had agreed without asking why. Mycroft would not have been able to tell him the reason, if he had. Sherlock did not need to know that he doubted John would survive him by more than a few months, if that. 

Mycroft had told his brother that he'd gone to see John, but he'd omitted how upset John had been. Sherlock certainly knew that John would be affected by this, but he had never understood how much John actually cared about him. That was a blessing now. 

He had tried for most of Sherlock's life to protect him from the consequences of emotional involvement and the dangerous vulnerability that came with it. He had succeeded quite well until John Watson entered the equation. In retrospect, Mycroft could clearly trace the path of destruction to its origin, and see his own hand in letting it happen. There had been warnings, and he had ignored them all. He had allowed himself to feel gratitude for Watson having saved Sherlock's life, when what he should have done was recognize the reason Sherlock had taken such a risk. Mycroft believed Sherlock's attempt to take down Jeff Hope alone had, for the first time, been about wanting another human being's approval. John Watson was the only person who had ever honestly admired Sherlock's abilities. He had become, over those first few days, the only person in the world whose opinion seemed to matter to Sherlock. Every decision Sherlock would make from that moment on would be influenced by how it might affect John, or John's opinion of him. Murdering Charles Magnussen had been Sherlock's ultimate sacrifice for John's safety, which included the safety of his wife and child. He had traded the rest of his life for John's, and there was nothing Mycroft could do now to change it. The knowledge that he had failed his brother so completely would torture him for the rest of his days.

"There is a point where guilt becomes self-indulgence. You're not omnipotent, Mycroft. Get over it."

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock, slightly startled to hear his voice. He was still looking at the window. "This from the man who threw his life away for a friend."

Sherlock turned to look at him then. He smiled. "He's a really good friend."

The pure emotion in his brother's eyes stunned him. Sherlock allowing him to see it so clearly told him that he was not going to hide it from John, either. "You have to let it go, Sherlock. Telling him now would be the worst thing you could do."

Sherlock studied him for a moment, then turned back to the window. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do."

No response.

Mycroft let the silence stretch out. "Sherlock, I need you to tell me clearly that this is what you want. We can still go back and go through the legal process. You might even find a jury who would understand. Prison for a time--"

"No." He turned and locked his gaze with Mycroft's. "This is the next best thing. It's what I want now."

Realization hit him like a blow to the chest. "You expected to be killed when you pulled that trigger."

Sherlock's smile was chilling. "Your men have alarmingly slow reflexes. You might want to consider a refresher course in tactical response."

John was right. It really had been an act of insanity. Whatever hope he'd had that Sherlock would somehow manage to prove him wrong and come out of this mission alive had just evaporated. He didn't want to come out of it alive. He never had.

"Sherlock, I--"

"Don't. Just leave it, Mycroft. It's over."

They reached the plane ten minutes before John's car arrived. Mycroft watched Sherlock's entire demeanor change when John stepped out of the car. It was the last time he would see his brother smile, and it shattered his heart.

* * * * *

When John had come out of the shower, he'd found that Mary had laid out his clothes for him. He should have appreciated her kindness, but it had made him wince at how badly he was handling this, and how pathetic he must seem to her. But it also made him step back and regroup. He took hold of the guilt that was paralyzing him and redirected it. Anger was harder to control, but it got his brain moving again. Nothing was making sense, therefore he was missing something, and he was rapidly running out of time to figure out what it was.

Sherlock had killed Magnussen because he'd run out of options. Mycroft had let him be arrested because he needed time to devise a proper response, one that he could hardly have been expected to come up with in the immediate aftermath. Witnessing his brother commit murder had to have affected even Mycroft's unflappable thought processes. He had claimed this morning that there was only one option open to them, and there was nothing he could do to change that. John hadn't believed him, but he was beginning to wonder if Sherlock had fooled them both.

This would hardly be the first time Sherlock had withheld a plan from him. It wouldn't even be the first time he'd disappeared 'forever'. So there was every reason to believe that the same thing was happening now. 

Even if Sherlock had wanted to tell him what was going on, when would he have been able to do it? He had been in custody, or under Mycroft's watchful eye since it happened. This afternoon's meeting would be his first chance to let John in on it. Sherlock would pull him aside and tell him what to do, and this nightmare would end.

By the time Mycroft's car delivered them to the airstrip, John was so convinced that this was a ruse that he was rehearsing in his head how best to tell Sherlock what a bastard he was for putting him through this again.

The car pulled up on the tarmac a few paces from where Sherlock was standing next to Mycroft. John got out and walked around the car to join his wife. Suddenly he was in no hurry to move any closer, and he stopped at Mary's side. Something in Sherlock's posture seemed too controlled. Too formal. He hesitated.

Mary didn't wait for him. She headed straight for Sherlock and wrapped him in a hug. That almost made John smile. Sherlock hugged her back, and that did make him smile. The two people he loved most in the world, sharing a good bye hug. 

No. Not good bye. John squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He walked over to join them. 

Mary kissed Sherlock's cheek, and he kissed her back. They exchanged a few words that made them both smile, but their expressions sobered as soon as they broke contact. Mary came back to John's side and took his hand.

Sherlock turned to his brother. "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I’ll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?"

Mary and Mycroft walked away, and Sherlock looked directly at him for the first time. There was something in Sherlock's gaze that made John want to look elsewhere. Both of them seemed suddenly awkward, and it made John's certainty waver a bit. 

The silence was unbearable. John took a breath. "So, here we are." _Come on, give me a clue._

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

For some reason, John's brain supplied an unhelpful memory. U.M.Q.R.A. As clues went, what Sherlock had just said was equally cryptic. "Sorry?"

"That's the whole of it. If you were looking for baby names."

John suppressed an impulse to give his head a clearing shake. It was so far from what he was expecting that he chuckled. "We've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl."

Sherlock smiled. "Oh. Okay."

John glanced at Mycroft and Mary, wondering if they were still too close for Sherlock to be able to speak freely. They could start walking, but Mycroft would probably tackle them. The silence stretched, increasing the tension. John cleared his throat. "Actually, I can't think of a single thing to say." _Because it's your bloody turn. Tell me what to do._

Sherlock dropped his gaze. "No, neither can I."

They were running out of time. John stepped closer and lowered his voice. "The game is over." _There's your opening. Get on with it, for God's sake._

Sherlock's gaze came up and fixed on his. "The game is never over, John."

 _Thank Christ. Now tell me what to do._ Even in his head, it was starting to take on an edge of desperation that was making his heart start to pound.

"But there may be some new players now. That’s okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end," Sherlock continued the thought.

John asked him what he was talking about, but he barely listened to the answer. He was busy regrouping. Obviously, there was not going to be a daring escape here. Not with Mycroft hovering nearby. John gave himself a mental slap for not thinking this through. It must be something that would take place after the plane took off. Maybe an unscheduled landing. Sherlock would contact him then, and--

"He was a rubbish big brother." Sherlock glanced at Mycroft.

He really, really needed to get confirmation of some kind. "So what about you, then. Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe."

John recognized the exaggeratedly bored tone, and his heart rate kicked up. "For how long?" 

"Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong." Flat. No eye contact.

"And then what?" _Lying. Why is he still holding to this story?_

There was real pain in Sherlock's eyes in the seconds before he looked up to break contact. "Who knows?" His lips were pressed tight.

_No. Don't._

"John, there’s something I should say. I-I’ve meant to say always and never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment, then looked down. John blew out a shaky breath, and Sherlock pulled one in. Maybe the same one.

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name." He smiled at his own joke.

John chuckled softly at his own stupidity. Said the most neutral thing he could come up with. "We're not naming our daughter after you." 

In the end, it didn't matter what words they used. John had seen it all in his eyes, and there was no longer any question that it was the truth. Sherlock knew he wasn't coming back, and now John knew it, too.

_This is the way the world ends._

He couldn't imagine five minutes from now, let alone the weeks that remained before his daughter would enter a world that would no longer include the man standing in front of him. She would never know him, or what he'd meant to her father. No matter what he told her, she could never understand. 

And then Sherlock was holding out his hand. The only other time they had done this was in front of Baker Street, the first time. 

_"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't even know your name."_

_"Mr. Holmes."_

_"Sherlock, please."_

And suddenly, all of the memories were there, flooding his mind and blocking out what was happening in front of him.

"To the very best of times." 

Sherlock was still offering his hand. John took it, and held on.

_It's over. When I let go of his hand, it's over._

Sherlock gave his hand one final squeeze, and let go. He turned and walked to the plane, mounted the steps, and disappeared. He never looked back.

John stood there with the world crashing down around him. Mary came to his side and took his hand, then pulled him to the edge of the tarmac. Mycroft got into his car, and the plane lifted off.

"John, it's time to go home."

_Home just left on a jet to nowhere._

It had been right in front of him all along. Sherlock was right. He truly was an idiot. A blind idiot. And he had just wasted his last chance.

_As always, John, you see but you don't observe._

He wondered how long it would take before Mary realized that she was left with an empty husk. _Welcome to the world, little daughter. Your parents are a semi-reformed assassin and a hollow shell. Happy birthday._

"I want to talk to Mycroft." He wanted the violin. And the skull. And his heart back. He wondered if Mycroft still had any part of his own.

But before they reached the car, Mycroft was getting out, and the expression on his face stopped John dead in his tracks. "What's happened?" 

He heard only the first few words. Moriarty was alive. Apparently. Mary asked him how that could be, and he said something back that he would never be able to remember. His entire focus was the plane in the distance, coming closer. Coming back. The rush of emotion made him dizzy. Exhilaration. Relief like nothing he'd felt since the last near miss, but this was nearer than anything that had gone before. The impossibility of Moriarty actually coming back to wreak havoc was barely a footnote. John would never again let Sherlock face him alone. Not Moriarty. Not anyone.

The plane was on the tarmac. Gliding past them to the other end of the strip. Turning around and coming back to where it had been five minutes before. As if nothing had ever happened.

The door opened, and Sherlock came down the steps, blinking in the sunlight like a man coming out of a cave. He saw John and stopped.

John started toward him, and Sherlock took a step backward. John paused, but only for a moment. We're not playing this game. Not anymore. Not ever again. Just how many second chances do you think we're going to get?

Sherlock stood still. John strode up to him and took a breath to steady his voice. Sherlock's eyes were red-rimmed and damp. Blinking, but not from the light. "You've got this razor's edge bit down to a science, don't you?" 

"I had nothing to do with it, John, but it's just a reprieve. Not a pardon." 

John shook his head. "I don't give a flying fuck what it's called or how it happened. You're back, and the only bloody way you're getting out of here again is over my dead body. And don't give me that look. I'm not gonna die, and neither are you. We are going to do whatever it takes to fix this."

Sherlock looked past him. John didn't need to follow his gaze to know he was looking at Mary.

"All of it, Sherlock. We're going to fix it all." The empty look that he got in response made him want to throw a punch. Instead, he surprised them both by pulling Sherlock into a hug. There was a moment of the same resistance he'd gotten at the wedding reception. He tightened his grip. _Don't you dare back away from me now._

And then Sherlock hugged him back.

* * * * *

End of Something Borrowed  
* * * *

 **Author's Notes:** This is as far as we can go without running headlong into series four. Since my goal is to explain and enhance what Moftiss provided, I'm out of material until then. I hope I've accomplished a bit of the illumination I set out to provide for this amazing treasure of a television series. The characters and the actors who bring them to life are simply the best. 

My most sincere thanks go to my tireless betas, **sevenpercent** and **Jolie_Black**. As always, I could not have done it without them. Any errors that remain are mine alone. I tend to tweak (and introduce typos etc) at the last minute, and usually in the middle of the bloody night, as I'm doing right now. They get to see the final version at the same time you do. 

I would very much like to hear your comments on my efforts. There will be a number of one-shot stories that fill in a bit more, but that just didn't fit into this one. Thank you so much for coming along with me. -GW


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